


Famous First Words

by Shadowcatxx



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Crimes & Criminals, Detectives, Gay Sex, Human Trafficking, Kidnapping, M/M, Porn, Romance, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-21 21:42:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 110,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13749798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowcatxx/pseuds/Shadowcatxx
Summary: AU. Club 69 is a hive of illegal activity and the after-dark prison of Arthur, the porn actor; Lovino, the stripper; and Matthew, the bartender. It also happens to be the target of three undercover detectives, whose job it is to clean up the wicked, sultry streets—not to date an actor, a stripper, and a bartender... which is only for the good of the mission, of course. ;) But romance is tumultuous in a place where trust is fickle and lives are only worth as much as someone is willing to pay for them.FrUK. Spamano. PruCan.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: "Hetalia: Axis Powers" - Hidekaz Himaruya
> 
> Please excuse my taking liberties with some character names and relationships. ALWAYS practice safe sex.

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

ENGLAND                Arthur Kirkland

CANADA                 Matthew Williams

DENMARK               Mikkel Densen

NORWAY                 Bjørn Thomassen

ICELAND                 Emil Thomassen

ROMANO                Lovino Vargas

FRANCE                  Francis Bonnefoi

SPAIN                     Antonio Fernández Carriedo

PRUSSIA                 Gilbert Beilschmidt

RUSSIA                   Ivan Braginsky

CHINA                     Wang Yao

GERMANY                Ludwig Beilschmidt

HONG KONG           Li Xiao Chun

AMERICA                Alfred Jones

TURKEY                  Sadik Adnan

ITALY                      Feliciano Vargas

* * *

It was late. The tiny postwar house was cold and funeral-black. And it was quiet. The clock ticked, and the radiator hummed, and outside traffic honked abrasively and the eleven-fifteen train roared by, shaking the walls, but inside the small bedroom it was quiet.

                Arthur was seventeen-years-old, pale, underfed, and hugging the only living relative he had left. He crushed young Matthew close. The boy was sobbing. He hugged Arthur tight, seeking a shield from the grief. They sat together on the single-bed they had been sharing for most of their lives: a wire-framed bed in a boxy, windowless bedroom with ugly yellow wallpaper. Aunt Madeline had not been wealthy. The circumstances of her late-husband's death had left her deep in illegal debt, the kind that was impossible for someone of humble means to ever pay off. Arthur couldn't recall a time before the debt-collectors and loan-sharks, who banged on the door in the small hours of morning. They scared Matthew. Poor fragile Matthew with his big frightened eyes. He and Arthur were both small for their ages, both of them skinny. Hungry. Arthur had spent his childhood pretending to hate scones just so Matthew could have more to eat. And with no forthcoming inheritance that wasn't likely to change.

                "It's alright," Arthur whispered as he rubbed Matthew's back, trying to soothe his young cousin. "It's going to be alright. I'm going to take care of us, Matthew. Don't you worry, poppet, everything is going to be alright."

                Arthur's words fell on deaf ears, but he talked anyway. He needed to, otherwise he might start crying. And he couldn't cry, no matter what. He couldn't break down. He had to be strong now for Matthew. Now that Aunt Madeline was buried, Matthew was the only thing that orphaned Arthur had left. He sat on their shared bed and he cradled his cousin in his arms. He wouldn't let Social Services take Matthew to an orphanage or a foster-home. Arthur had lived in foster-care for a few years after his mother had disappeared, before Aunt Madeline had found and taken him in. Arthur had only been three-years-old then, but he remembered the filthy, crowded place. He would not let them take Matthew to a place like that.

"I won't let them take you away," he said. "I swear, I won't. I'll make sure we stay together. We'll always be together, poppet. Just you and I, okay? It's just  you and I now, but don't worry. I'll take care of you."

                Arthur was only seventeen-years-old. He kissed his cousin's curly head and swore a solemn vow:

                "I'll do something— _anything_. I'll do whatever it takes to protect us, I promise."


	2. One

**ARTHUR**

**SEVEN YEARS LATER**

And—CUT!" the director yelled.

                Arthur's face relaxed. He closed his mouth—his lips a perfect O of orgasmic pleasure—and licked the saliva from his chin as he blinked feigned tears from his eyelashes. It was exhausting pretending to fake it every time, especially when his colleague's performance was less than satisfactory. _Oh_ , _bloody-hell_ , he had thought, bored. The actor's uneven rhythm was jerky and uncoordinated, culminating in very little... impact. _Where do they find these blokes anyway_?

                "Oi—!" he called to the man. The actor turned around and blinked at Arthur, blonde head cocked. He looked like a confused owl. _No_ , _owl is being way too generous_. _Owls are very intelligent creatures_. _This one_ —Arthur sighed in defeat— _looks like he struggles to tie his shoelaces._ He was a tall, fit man who looked like he spent his free time at the gym. No doubt that's why the director had hired him: good-looks _and size_ were more important than skill. "Come here," Arthur whistled at him, as if he were calling a dog. "Lend me a hand, will you?"

                The actor eyed Arthur, whose wrists were handcuffed. "A whole hand—? I think a few fingers is all you need." He wiggled his meaty fingers, still sticky, and then laughed at his own joke.

                Arthur forced an amiable smile, then, once freed, muttered: " _Git_."

                He towelled-off, dressed, and ran for the door before the director could criticize his performance. Too late. " _Lexus_!" he yelled, cocking his finger in a come-hither way. As a result, it was after midnight by the time he finally left the studio. Lewd music harassed his ears as he climbed a metal staircase, dragging his feet step-by-step until he reached the landing: a blood-red door. _How cliché_. He pushed it open and walked into a hot, sweaty, glittery scene. It was crowded. Patrons howled in appreciation of the half-naked dancers on-stage. The lounge was a cacophony of fake moans and deep-throated groans of pleasure, and the bar was a hive of loud, sticky, flirty, drunken activity. Even so, Arthur had no trouble spotting Matthew behind the counter. The violet-eyed blonde was easily the prettiest waiter the club employed. He was also easily the youngest. All the others were retired dancers—too old at thirty to be on-stage. Matthew should have been a dancer—he was _supposed_ to be a dancer; it's what he had been hired to do—but he couldn't dance. Not to save his life could that boy dance. Arthur had had to beg the club's owner to let him stay on as a bartender instead, arguing in the way of tips.

                "Just look at him," Arthur had said, waving a hand in Matthew's direction. "Tell me he wouldn't fetch a small fortune in tips."

                Mikkel Densen bobbed his head noncommittally, a pretty, pale blonde perched on each knee. Despite him being the heir of a Scandinavian business tycoon—and the heir of an infamous crime syndicate—spoiled rotten since childhood, he had never cared about the money. Money was something that he had always had, so he had no reason to think that he may not have it someday. No, the Dane had always been more interested in the play than the profit. And the proof was in the way he ignored Arthur in favour of his lapdogs. Arthur had worked at Club 69 for six years, but he had never seen either of the violet-eyed Nordics smile. He didn't even know their real names, only their aliases—Jaguar and Porsche—but he did know that they weren't employees like everyone else. They were special, hand-picked to stay at Mikkel's side. They never left the fourth-floor without him, they never spoke to anyone else, and no one— _no one_ —was allowed to touch them. The Dane didn't like others touching his things. Not that _everyone_ at the club wasn't a piece of Mikkel's property...

                _And now Matthew will be one of them_ , _too—one of us_.

                "He's cute, sure," Mikkel acknowledged, glancing at Matthew, "but a bartender? I don't know, he's not..."

                He trailed off when the Norwegian's pale lips touched his ear. Arthur couldn't hear Jaguar's words, but later he realized that he owed Matthew's employment to him. Not that it merited thanks. Mikkel's mouth twisted into a grin as the Norwegian spoke, like a boy discovering a new game. Finally, he said:

                "Alright, I'll let the kid stay, but on one condition. I want the equivalent of a dancer's tips from him— _every_ night. I've got no use for a pretty face that can't dance or make tips," he said mercilessly. "If he's not worth his wages, he goes."

                Arthur glared at the Jaguar, who had rested his head on Mikkel's shoulder. He may have looked like nothing but an accessory, but he wasn't. His violet eyes were cold.

                Arthur knew a take-it-or-leave-it deal when he saw one.

                "Fine," he had agreed.

                So Matthew bartended and waited on tables. He wore the club's revealing black uniform, and he walked with a sway to his hips, and he leant down and bent over as often as needed, never complaining when he got grabbed or groped, and he smiled and pretended to be flattered by the patrons, whom he was secretly afraid of.

                "He's not a bad actor," Mikkel had said once, eyeing Arthur suggestively. "If you know what I mean?"

                "Over my dead body," was Arthur's candid reply. The English-born man would never let his cousin take a job downstairs.

                Arthur navigated the crowd, squeezing and ducking between patrons. "Excuse me, please," he said politely, trying to reach the bar. But he was rather slight and lightweight and he got pushed and shoved a lot. He tried to elbow past the larger men, but despite his pleas nobody paid him any attention.

                "Could I just—Oh! So sorry! May I please just— _Ow_! _Blimey_!" he gasped, hopping inelegantly when someone trod on his foot. "Oh, for the bloody love of God, the Queen, and holy fucking shit! MOVE!" he snapped aggressively, shoving patrons aside. In one fluid motion, he vaulted over the countertop and landed behind the bar.

                "Hey, Art," said Matthew. He was mixing a cocktail and didn't even flinch. "How was it?" he asked discretely.

                "Bloody awful. I got lectured—again."

                "Couldn't fake it this time?" Matthew guessed. Mechanically he slid the drink across the countertop and took the next order.

                "They don't pay me nearly enough," Arthur deadpanned in reply.

                Finally, Matthew looked at him. "Oh, Art, I'm so sorry," he said, as if it was somehow his fault.

                Matthew was the only person in the world whose pity didn't make the Englishman want to punch him square in the mouth. Despite the club's sultry atmosphere and the waiter's revealing attire, Matthew somehow still managed to look like innocence incarnate, as pure as a violet-eyed angel. Striking him would have been like punching a puppy. The teenager was a tall, pale-skinned beauty, but Arthur still saw a frightened child whenever he looked into those luminous eyes. He still felt like the boy's protector, his older brother. Matthew was the only family he had left, and the only person in the whole world who actually cared about Arthur Kirkland—the mediocre porn actor.

                Matthew's apology made Arthur feel guilty. He hated feeling guilty, so he cracked a joke as if he didn't care:

                "If they're going to pay me shite, the least they could do is hire a bloke who knows what he's bloody doing. If he could just make me come, at least it would be some consolation. I hate faking it. It's not even worth the effort," he sighed, as if shrugging-off office misconduct.

                "Then quit." It was said quietly. Matthew's head was bowed, his face hidden.

                "Matthew, we've talked about this. I can't quit."

                "You mean, you won't."

                Before Arthur could rebut, a loud voice called over the music and Lovino leapt onto the countertop. "Hey!" yelled the dancer self-importantly. He eyed the throng of patrons. "Which one of you rich fuckers wants to buy me a drink? Make it a double and I'll give you a lap-dance for half-price! Let me see. You—you'll do!" He pointed vaguely to a handsome brunette, who was better dressed than most. (A former art student, Lovino had a keen eye for fashion. Expensive suits equalled money equalled a huge tip in the Italian's logic.) The brunette cordially paid for a double-shot and Matthew fixed Lovino his preferred poison. " _Grazie_!" he called over-the-shoulder, leading the patron away.

                Arthur rolled his eyes.

                "Don't let Lovino drink his paycheck," he warned Matthew. "He still owes me his share for last month's rent."

                In Arthur's opinion, the worst decision he had ever made was not fighting in school, or drinking underage, or experimenting with illegal drugs, or accepting the submissive role in a porn film when he was only eighteen-years-old, which had snowballed into his present career. No. The biggest mistake he had made was letting spoiled, twenty-two-year-old Lovino room with he and Matthew.

                "He's got nowhere else to go," Matthew had argued on Lovino's behalf. "He can't go home, his boyfriend— _ex-_ boyfriend—hits him. Please, Art? Lovino's been so kind to me. He tried really, _really_ hard to teach me to be a dancer. I owe him for that. It'll only be for a little while, just until he can find a new place to live, okay? _Please_?"

                Damn Matthew and his big puppy-dog eyes!

                "Fine," Arthur had growled. "He can stay. But just until he finds somewhere else. And he'll help pay the rent. This isn't charity."

                That had been over a year ago. And Lovino hadn't left.

                "I'll see you at home," Arthur said to Matthew. "I need a bloody shower. Be careful," he added, slipping a wad of banknotes into Matthew's pocket. "Take a taxi. Don't let Lovino bully you into taking the bus, it's not safe at night."

                "I know, I won't," Matthew promised. "Thanks, Art."

                "Cheers," said Arthur.

                He turned away and leapt back over the countertop, but it was slippery with spillage and he lost his balance. He crashed into a patron standing on the other side and they both fell to the filthy, sticky floor.

                "Oh, bloody-hell! I'm so very sorry!" Arthur panicked, looking down at the man who had broken his fall. He wasn't a distinctly tall or broad man; in fact, he and Arthur shared a lithe figure. He was young (twenty-something), blonde, blue-eyed, and very well-groomed. He was only an inch or so taller than Arthur, but much more elegant. He wore a stunningly expensive suit. "Oh, bugger me!" Thoughtlessly, Arthur grabbed a handful of serviettes and began wiping at the stains on the man's jacket.

                "It's a tempting offer, _chéri_ , but I'm regrettably busy tonight."

                Arthur's face heated in embarrassment—in secret fear. The patrons of Club 69 were not the most forgiving of men, especially the self-entitled playboys with nice clothes. Money equalled power in Arthur's world, and people with power liked to flaunt it. Abuse it. People with too much power were dangerous. "I'm sorry," he repeated earnestly. He had worked hard to keep a low-profile for he and Matthew, never drawing unwanted attention to himself off-screen. The last thing he wanted was trouble, especially from a Frenchman.

                "Is there anything I can do for you?" he offered.

                "Yes," said the Frenchman, smiling. "You can get off of me."

                "Oh, bugger—I mean, fuck."

                Hastily Arthur leapt to his feet and offered the chuckling  young man a hand, which he took. His fingers were long and artistic.

                " _Enchanté_ ," he said, squeezing gently.

                "Uh, sure," Arthur frowned in reply.

                "You're bleeding," the Frenchman noted lazily, tapping his own forearm in example.

                Arthur's fall had torn his shirtsleeve and cut his skin on the counter's edge. "Oh, so I am," he acknowledged, feeling dazed. "Yes, right. Uh, excuse me, please."

                He left quickly, before the Frenchman could demand compensation for the dry-cleaning bill he was definitely due. He left before taking a close look at the Frenchman's handsome, blue-eyed face and noticing the microphone that had fallen out of his ear; before he could spot the firearm tucked secretly inside his jacket. In fact, the flustered porn actor left the scene so fast, afraid of retribution, that he didn't even register dropping his wallet in the fall. Or that he had accidentally grabbed the wrong wallet when he left.

* * *

**LOVINO**

Lovino threw back the strong double-shot and licked his supple lips seductively. "Alright, Green Eyes, let's do this," he said, pushing the patron back into a vacant chair. He slid onto the man's lap, straddling his tapered waist. The Italian could feel the tense muscles beneath the man's expensive clothes. They rippled as he moved. He started slow, then his rhythm increased. He had done this many times before. And it helped that this one was a good-looking man. Like, a _really_ good-looking man. He had glossy brown hair that curled between Lovino's delicate fingers. It smelled really good. And his warm hands felt good on Lovino's naked skin. His touch was teasingly gentle, not the pawing, grabbing, groping of most overeager men. He simply held Lovino's narrow hips as the dancer rocked fluidly back-and-forth.

                " _Mm_ ," Lovino moaned approvingly in the young man's ear. He licked the earlobe and felt a small hole, once pierced. "You're a big boy, aren't you?" he groaned throatily, grinding his hips against the man's pelvis. He grinned a saucy grin. " _Mm_ , _yeah_. Oh, you like that, don't you, baby?" He leant in close, letting his wet lips linger inches from the man's shapely mouth. "I bet you're a fucking firecracker, aren't you? _Mm_ , a handsome stallion like you. You want me to ride you, baby? _Oh_ , _yeah._ I can feel it. You want me, don't you?" Playfully, he nipped the man's nose. "You want me so badly, don't you, _Green Eyes_?"

                The man's eyes twinkled playfully. He smiled—

                _That's right_ , _idiot. I want a big_ _fat tip for this fucking show_.

                —and then he laughed.

                The young green-eyed man burst out laughing. His whole body shuddered with the effort, stomach muscles rippling. He laughed so hard that his eyes teared. A big, loud, stupid-sounding, _genuine_ laugh. He laughed and didn't stop until Lovino slapped him across the face.

                "I-I—I'm sorry," the man gasped, red-cheeked but still grinning. "I didn't mean to offend you, it's just, well... Does that really work?"

                Perched on the man's lap, Lovino gaped at the Spaniard in bafflement. "Excuse me?" he asked dangerously.

                "Those lines you're feeding me, that—that _voice_!" he snorted. "Does anyone actually buy that act?"

                Lovino blinked. His temper flared.

                "Yes, actually, they do. And most are fucking grateful for it."

                Feeling affronted, he uncoiled himself and stood up. He was not tall. In fact, he was the smallest dancer Club 69 employed, a naturally fine-boned beauty. He had a dancer's figure. He was remarkably flexible, but not strong. But as long as he was standing and the Spaniard was sitting, he was the taller. He used the height to his advantage in an attempt to intimidate. He glared down at the green-eyed man in ire and loosed his fiery temper without precaution or restraint:

                "Just who do you think you are, you fucking jackass? You don't like my performance? Then don't come to a fucking strip-club! Just how stupid are you? You think you can just waltz your fine ass in here with your money and your pretty face and make fun of _me_? You think I have nothing better to do than ride your fucking boner all night, you asshole? Wrong! I don't have to waste my time on ungrateful pricks like you! You want a treat, _sweetheart_? There's the fucking door, Your Highness! You can just get the hell out and jerk yourself off! You don't deserve any of _this_!" he yelled, gesturing at his half-naked figure. "Fucking bastard!"

                The Spaniard stared in stunned silence for a moment. Then his lips quivered, curled—

                "Don't you fucking dare," Lovino snarled in threat. Too late.

                —the Spaniard burst out laughing.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Francis watched the scene from the bar. He smiled and shook his head. Quietly, he said: "Toni just got bitch-slapped by a stripper."

                The microphone in his ear crackled softly, relaying Gilbert's laughter. " _That's fucking awesome_!" he said.

                "It would be, yes," Francis agreed. He scanned the club's floor and spotted several burly bouncers. "But he's drawing too much attention to himself. He's going to get himself thrown out."

                " _Because of one stripper_?"

                "He's a very vocal stripper."

                " _Mm_ , _nice_.

                " _What's he wearing_?" Gilbert added, at the same time a bartender asked Francis: "What can I get for you?"

                Francis faced the pretty blonde, a flirtatious glint in his eyes. "Nothing, _chéri_."

                " _Nothing_?" Gilbert gasped, pretending to be scandalized. " _Lucky_ , _Toni. You guys get all the fun roles._ "

                "I'd love to disagree, my friend, but it's true," Francis said, winking at the blonde as he left the bar. Slowly, he walked to the opposite side of the stage to avoid staying in one place too long. He didn't make eye-contact with anyone and he didn't get in anyone's way. He moved anonymously, just another rich playboy in the crowd enjoying his night.

                Francis loved going undercover. It was his favourite thing about being a detective in this rotten city. He loved the thrill and excitement of playing a role; of dressing-up like a stage-actor. He loved the fake personas he got to play. Tonight it was a rich playboy. Tomorrow, who knew? It was fun. And he was good at it. Francis and Antonio were the two who always got chosen for undercover missions because of their versatility. They could look like, sound like, or act like anyone. They could _be_ anyone. It was a gift that Gilbert secretly envied.

                "Ask the Chief if you can join us tomorrow night," Francis suggested half-heartedly.

                " _Can't_ ," came the expected reply. " _I'm too recognizable. I can't disappear in a crowd like you and Toni can. I'm just too damn memorable_ ," said Gilbert good-humouredly.

                Francis felt bad for Gilbert's albinism, which limited him to playing shadow-games. He was never allowed to show his face in the field because he was much too recognizable. It was a pity—but Francis would not pity his red-eyed partner. It was not something that Gilbert wanted or appreciated. Instead, the German-born honed other skills and was the most physically fit and stunningly accurate shot on the force. He was a sharpshooter. Contrary to the norm, Gilbert's eyesight was exceptionally keen, which made him an excellent marksman. He was also the most experienced in reconnaissance missions, which was something of a specialty of his. Just then, he was perched on a rooftop across the street from Club 69, keeping a watch for danger and potential targets. The reason that Francis and Antonio felt so confident waltzing into the enemy's belly was because they knew that Gilbert was guarding them.

                " _Hey_ , _someone's leaving through a side-door_ ," Gilbert reported.

                "A patron?" Francis asked.

                " _No_ , _looks like an employee. A stripper_ , _maybe_?"

                Quickly, Francis surveyed the stage. Except for the irate Italian, all of the dancers were accounted for. "No, I don't think so. Describe him."

                " _Average-height. Skinny. Blonde. Ugly tartan overcoat. He's walking fast_ , _heading to the road._ "

                "I know who you're talking about," Francis replied, thinking of the young green-eyed blonde who had tackled him. "He's not a dancer or waiter, but he's employed here. I'm sure of it. He arrived late and left early. He went behind the bar and spoke to one of the bartenders for a while, then slipped something into the boy's pocket. It was discrete. I almost missed it."

                " _Drug-dealer_?"

                "I don't know."

                " _Can you talk to the bartender_?"

                Francis glanced at the bar. It was hectic. "No, not without being suspicious. But if he leaves the bar, I'll follow him. I saw him waiting tables earlier. If I get the chance, I'll pickpocket him."

                " _He a cutie_? _Worth copping-a-feel_ —?"

                Francis rolled his eyes. "Always the gentleman, Gil."

                " _I try_."

                "Don't you fucking dare," said the Italian suddenly. Then Antonio burst out laughing—again.

                "Oh, fuck," said Francis flatly. "I think Toni just crossed the line with that stripper. He's going to get himself kicked-out any minute now. Oh, wait. Maybe... Nope. He's done for. Here comes the bouncer, and... there goes Toni."

                " _Uh_ , _guys_ —?" said Antonio's giddy voice in Francis' ear. He snorted, as if he were the punch-line of a genius joke. " _I'm being escorted out_. _See you soon_ , _Gil._ "

                Francis watched from a high-vantage as Antonio was led by an imposing half-giant to the exit. Before he left, he lifted his hand and waved jauntily over-the-shoulder. Francis chuckled.

* * *

**ANTONIO**

You're useless," said Gilbert in greeting. He shifted sideways, making room for Antonio on his sliver of rooftop. A jet-black rifle was set cozily beside the German, like a favoured pet.

                Antonio tugged his tie loose as he sat down. He shivered. It was cold hard concert and Gilbert's blanket did little to alleviate the discomfort. Not that the German seemed to mind. Even as he spoke, Gilbert's red gaze never wandered from the street below. _He looks like a gargoyle_ , Antonio thought. Whereas he and Francis got to wear expensive, tailor-made suits intended to impress, Gilbert wore simple black street-clothes for camouflage in the dark. In the streetlight's weak glow, he looked younger than his twenty-seven years. The hood pulled overhead made him look the part of an assassin. _What a cool job_! Antonio thought, admiring his friend's skill.

                He, himself, was not the strongest or fastest member on the force (not consciously, anyway), and maybe he didn't have the best combat record either. Maybe— _maybe_ he had a bit of a bad history. Just a couple of instances. Just a couple times when he had gotten a little carried away. A little overzealous. A little out-of-hand. A little... crazy.

                Francis jokingly called it Antonio's _Berserker_. But even though it sounded badass, Antonio hated it. He was afraid of it. It was a brutal affliction that he couldn't control. He had tried to discipline his mind and body to prevent it, but it was useless. The Berserker was fueled by an overwhelming rage that could not be explained or suppressed. Fortunately, it had become a rare thing since his extremely unstable teenage years. It didn't happen often anymore, but when it did it was usually unprovoked and left the twenty-seven-year-old feeling lost and confused afterward. The smallest thing could set him off and then there was no stopping him until the Berserker had run its course. Gilbert had tried to stop it once and had ended up with broken bones. Antonio still felt bad about that. The Spaniard became a madman who couldn't distinguish between friend and foe. In a fight, he became like a feral beast. It had gotten him into a lot of trouble in the past, and learning to control it had been his only reason for finally joining the force. (How else was he going to get access to restricted drugs?)

                "Toni—?"

                Gilbert's voice interrupted Antonio's bleak thoughts.

                "Is it true you got bitch-slapped by a stripper?"

                A sly grin reshaped Antonio's lips. "Yes," he confirmed. In proof, he tapped his abused red cheek. "And it was totally worth it."

                "You're so weird," said Gilbert. "And maybe a masochist."

                Antonio shrugged. "He was too cute not to provoke. I like hot-tempered boys like him."

                "I know you do. I don't know _why_ you do," Gilbert shook his silvery head, "but, whatever. You're Spanish," he said, as if that explained it.

                "And he's Italian. A hot Italian, with a hot Italian accent, and a hot Italian temper," Antonio purred.

                "Oh, yeah? On a scale from one to ten—?"

                "Eleven! No—twelve!"

                " _I'd give him a generous seven-point-five_ ," came Francis' voice.

                Antonio frowned, as if the Frenchman had served him a personal insult. "Rude," he said dejectedly.

                " _Oh_ , _he's certainly a beauty_!" Francis acknowledged in appeasement. " _But his personality leaves something to be desired_."

                "Hey, you grope that bartender yet?" Gilbert asked as a quick change-of-topic. Francis and Antonio had quite different tastes in lovers and argued about it so often—and so unabashedly—it made Gilbert dizzy.

                " _No_ , _I haven't had the chance. He's been stuck behind the bar_."

                "What bartender?" Antonio asked curiously, feigned-insult forgotten.

                " _The cute blonde_ ," Francis described. " _The really young one_. _He can't be older than nineteen_ , _twenty_? _He's got exquisite curls_ , _like mine._ "

                "I have no idea who you're talking about."

                " _Really_? _Oh_ , _come on_ , _Toni_ , _you're a cop. You're supposed to be observant. He's been there the whole time_!"

                "Has he?" Antonio exchanged a look with Gilbert, who shrugged unhelpfully. "Hmm, well I didn't notice him. I guess he's just not that memorable."

* * *

**MATTHEW**

It was late, nearly half-two in the morning, nearly closing-time, and Matthew was tired. He stifled a yawn. He wanted a scalding-hot shower, his extra-large hoodie, his fluffy bed, and sleep. Lots of sleep. He wanted to burrow beneath his thick, snow-white duvet and sleep until spring like a hibernating beast. No work, no bills, no slutty uniform, no angry, horny, drunken patrons, no measly paycheck, no Club 69. He wanted to curl-up beside Arthur and escape to a dream-world where cold, hungry, sleepless nights didn't exist. Instead, he smiled at the patrons, who secretly disgusted him, and tried to lose himself in a daydream as he prepared the bar for closing.

                He was collecting empty glasses from a table when someone stumbled into him. A hand groped his backside before retreating.

                "Oh, how clumsy of me! Apologies, _chéri_!"

                Matthew considered the handsome Frenchman, who's cheeks were flushed with drink. "That's okay, just be careful," he said, paying the patron a fleeting smile.

                "Matt!" Lovino yelled. On-stage, his cinnamon skin glistened with beads of sparkly sweat and his chocolate-brown hair shone like a stallion's shiny coat. The harshness of the overhead stage lights should have made him appear meek, but instead the faux gold accentuated the Italian's flawless beauty and likened him to the image of a Roman god. Despite his small stature, Lovino did not lack stage-presence. If it weren't for his temper, he would have been the most popular dancer at Club 69.

                Matthew strode to the stage and habitually took the banknotes that Lovino handed to him: the dancer's tips.

                (At the end of the night, the employees tallied their tips and the money was distributed accordingly amongst them all—except for Matthew—with Mikkel taking the majority portion. Lovino's handful for tonight was pitiful. After the scene with the cocky Spaniard, few patrons had wanted the hotheaded dancer's attention, and even fewer had requested him. Despite Lovino's good-looks, his catlike eyes blazed a subconscious warning to the club's patrons that said _look but don't touch_ , which wasn't ideal for making money.)

                "Fuck! If it hadn't been for that fucking Spanish bastard..." he began, but trailed moodily off. Lovino wasn't in the habit of lying to himself. Every angry outburst cost him in tips and tonight had been no different. In fact, it had been worse. "I'll be out as soon as I get this fucking glitter off me," he said, gesturing backstage.

                Matthew finished cleaning the floor while he waited for Lovino. The club was empty of patrons now. The last had been escorted out by the bouncers, including the blue-eyed Frenchman. When Lovino finally emerged, he looked relatively mute compared to his loud stage-costume. He still had silver glitter in his eyelashes, but Matthew chose not to acknowledge it. Together, they donned their winter coats—it was cold for November—and left the club via the side-door. It opened into a narrow alley, which Club 69 shared with a tanning salon next-door. Lovino shivered in the wind and headed for the street, but Matthew stopped him.

                "Art gave me money for a taxi," he said.

                "Oh, good. I hate taking the fucking bus."

                "Me too, it's so—" Matthew froze in sudden dread. His back-pocket was empty. "Uh, one sec. I thought he put it—" Frantically, he searched his coat pockets. "Oh, shit!"

                "What?"

                "Oh, shit!" Matthew repeated. "Art gave me fifty in cash and I lost it!"

                " _Wha_ —? Are you sure? That's a lot of money, Matt! That's our ride home!" Lovino chastised.

                "I know, I'm sorry! I—"

                "Maybe you left it inside? Maybe you mistook it for tips and handed it in—?"

                But Matthew shook his head. The money that Arthur gave him was their secret. He had to hide it or he risked losing it.

                Lovino heaved a deep, defeated sigh. "I'll go get change for the bus," he said, heading back into the club. "You wait here. I'll be right back."

                Matthew sighed and leant against a cold brick wall. He closed his eyes. _So much for showing Art that I can take care of myself_ , he thought, depressed. He was old enough, after all, yet Arthur still treated him like a frightened child. _It's because I've never given him a reason not to_. Arthur had been protecting Matthew for as long as he could remember, and he would continue to do so as long as Matthew needed him. The only reason Arthur had chosen a life of endless degradation making smutty adult-films was because it paid for Matthew's rent, food, clothes. It provided the income they lived off of. Matthew's meager wages didn't even come close to affording what Arthur's could (which was pitiful, really). _It's all my fault_ , Matthew had thought when Arthur had taken his first job at eighteen-years-old. Matthew had only been eleven then, and they had just been evicted from his mother's house; the house by the railroad tracks that he and Arthur had grown-up in. Matthew was just starting middle-school. Arthur had already dropped-out of high-school, but he had refused to let Matthew do the same. "Don't worry, poppet. I'll take care of it. You just focus on your studies," he had said. _My studies_ , _pft_. It was impossible to study when you were tired and hungry and worried that one day your cousin might not come home. Matthew had been young and scared when his mother had died. He hadn't known what to do. He had _never_ known what to do.

                _Why am I so useless_? he thought, letting the cold wind chill him. He was so tired.

                "Hey, look here," said a deep voice.

                Matthew's eyes shot open in surprise. A half-circle of big shapes surrounded him. _Oh_ , _fuck_.

                "Aren't you a pretty thing? But you look cold." The man's bloodshot eyes lingered on Matthew's exposed legs. "You work here, doll?" He cocked his greasy head at Club 69. "I bet you made a killing in tips tonight, huh, baby? Such a pretty thing like you. I bet you'd love to share, wouldn't you—"

                Matthew slapped at his hand. "Get away from me!" he snapped, voice shaking. "I-I—I don't have anything."

                "Nothing—? Oh, come on now, baby." Suddenly, the man grabbed Matthew's biceps and squeezed him hard. He leant in close. "A beauty like you? You must have _something_. Money? Or, sparkly gifts from admirers?"

                "I-I—I don't," Matthew insisted, pressed flat against the wall. "I really don't. Please leave me alone."

                As the men descended on him, jostling and groping and bruising him in their search for valuables, Matthew wished that he did have something—anything—to offer them, if only to make them stop. One of the club's ex-dancer's had told him once that the worst time to get robbed was when you had nothing worth robbing. It angered the robbers. In proof, the men spit vicious remarks in disappointment, talking with their fists. Matthew endured a few frustrated blows before a fist struck his stomach hard and he buckled. His knees hit the pavement and he gasped.

                _This_ , he thought, _is my punishment for having no money_.

                "Let's go," one man suggested, "he's got nothing worth taking."

                _Yes_ , _go_! _Please_ , _just go_!

                But the leader wasn't ready to surrender. He was a negotiator. He said: "I wouldn't say _nothing_." Roughly, he grabbed Matthew by the curls and forced his head up. "I don't like wasting my time," he sneered, as if Matthew's lack of valuables was the man's inconvenience. "So," one-handed, he unzipped his fly, "you're going to make it worth it."

                Matthew squeezed his eyes shut as the man yanked his head forward. But that's as far as he got.

                A grunt, then a shriek sounded. There was a crunch, like bones breaking. Matthew's eyes flew open in shock. His captor whipped around just in time to get violently struck. He cried-out as he hit the pavement.               He tried to regain his feet, but a kick crashed into his back, forcing him down. Instead, the man crawled on his hands-and-knees. He spit profanities as he stumbled, racing after his retreating fellows. It happened fast. One minute Matthew was surrounded. The next he was sitting alone on the ground.

                His rescuer was a very tall, lean man dressed in black from head-to-toe. A big cowl-like hood hid his face, but the streetlight illuminated his pearl-white lips, lifted in a rueful grin.

                "You okay?" he asked in a low, growly voice. He extended his hand.

                "Yes," said Matthew meekly.

                "Good."

                Effortlessly he pulled Matthew to his feet, then broke contact and turned away.

                It took the teenager a moment to find his voice. "Uh, thank-you!" he called to his quickly retreating rescuer.

                He received a haft-hearted, over-the-shoulder wave in reply.

                As soon as the mysterious man rounded the corner and disappeared, swallowed by the night, the club's side-door opened and Lovino stepped out. "That took a long fucking time," he complained, miffed. He began walking to the bus stop, shoulders hunched against the cold, but stopped when he realized that Matthew wasn't following. "Hey," he said impatiently, "I got change for the bus, let's go. It's fucking freezing out here!"

* * *

**GILBERT**

Gilbert hated bullies. A lot. He always had.

                He was climbing down from the rooftop, lugging his duffle-bag, hiding his sniper-rifle, when he saw the men. The gangly group ducked into an alley to avoid attracting unwanted attention, intending to drink or shoot-up—it was anyone's guess—when they saw the boy. He was waiting for his co-worker to return and looked like a victim, a young blonde with curly hair. Francis' bartender. The maybe-drug addict. (Let no one say that Detective Beilschmidt didn't pay attention.) Gilbert hoped the group would just keep walking, but they didn't. They stopped, intending robbery. He was going to walk away. He was a sharpshooter who worked in the shadows, and he was under strict orders not to get involved with anyone unnecessarily. He was not allowed to show his face. _They'll take his money and then move on_ , he knew. Except they didn't, because the boy had nothing to take. _What kind of bartender has no tips after a whole night of working_? _Whatever. He's not my problem. He's not my job._ _Let the on-call police deal with it._ It's not like the boy was trying to fight. He looked too spooked. Soon the men would get bored of him and leave.

                Gilbert slung his duffle-bag over his shoulder and started walking away. Then he heard:

                "I don't like wasting my time. You're going to make it worth it."

                " _Fuck_ ," the German cursed. _So close._

                He adjusted his hood, pulling it further down, and turned back.

                It was finished fast, as expected. Gilbert was a born-and-bred fighter. He had been training at hand-to-hand combat since he was a child, not including all of the time he had spent play-fighting with his brother. He had been a boxer and a track-runner in high-school, and was the best—undefeated—fighter on the force (sans the Berserker). As such, it took the German all of five seconds to frighten off the robbers. It was hardly a workout. Then he looked down at the frightened boy.

                "You okay?" he asked.

                The boy's eyes were big and violet. Gilbert had never seen violet eyes before. _Hmm_ , _pretty_ , he thought. _Those eyelashes go on for miles_.

                "Yes," he said softly.

                Gilbert's heart skipped a beat. The feeling took him completely off-guard. He didn't like it.

                "Good," he said gruffly. He offered the boy a hand and then pulled him to his feet. The boy nearly flew. _Fuck_ , _he weighs_ , _like_ , _nothing at all_. Quickly, he let go.

                "Uh, thank-you!" the boy called as Gilbert walked away.

                He waved over-the-shoulder in farewell. _Get home safely_ , he thought, fighting the urge to stalk him home.

                He met his partners in the park a few blocks away. Francis was pacing lazily back-and-forth while inspecting the cleanliness of his suit, and Antonio was sitting on the dry fountain's edge, legs splayed, eating a burrito.

                "You've got salsa on your face," Gilbert said.

                Antonio grinned. "I got hungry."

                "And Del Taco was the only thing open at three am?"

                "What?" The Spaniard shrugged in self-defense. "I like Mexican."

                "You sure you wouldn't rather be feasting on Italian?" Francis teased.

                Antonio grinned, lips salsa-red. "Well, I didn't see Italian on the menu. But if I had..." He clucked his tongue twice and purred suggestively.

                Francis rolled his eyes and handed Antonio a handkerchief. "You're so odd," he said affectionately.

                "Said the man with a silk handkerchief," Gilbert interjected. "What are you, a magician?"

                Francis cocked an ash-blonde eyebrow. "Why so late, Gil?" he changed the topic. "You're usually the first one to arrive at the meeting spot."

                "I got held up. I was being an awesome knight-in-shining-armour, no big deal." Gilbert smirked arrogantly.

                "You look more like a vigilante," Antonio said through a mouthful of burrito.

                Gilbert and Francis paused to exchange a mischievous look, and then leapt at the Spaniard in a synchronized attack. Francis pulled Antonio into a headlock; Gilbert stole the half-eaten burrito and shoved the remainder sloppily into his mouth. The intense spice made his eyes water—he hated spicy food—but it was worth it to see the Spaniard's crestfallen face.

                " _No_ , _my burrito_!" Antonio cried in mock-distress.

                Francis laughed benignly and ruffled his partner's dark hair. "Come on, let's go. It's already late. And I've still got some research to do," he added ambiguously.

                Gilbert conceded. He slung his heavy duffle-bag over-the-shoulder and followed his partners uptown.


	3. Two

**ARTHUR**

Arthur's eyes opened and glared at the abrasive sunlight. One day he or Matthew was going to remember to close the drapes before bed, but he could be peeved about that later. Just then, someone was banging loudly on the flat's door. _Who the fuck_ —the Englishman swiped at the alarm clock, annoyed about the hour— _is calling in at the crack of bloody noon_? He crawled out of bed, tossing the duvet back atop Matthew, who groaned and buried his disheveled head. "Bugger," Arthur muttered as his bare feet touched the cold floor. He stumbled out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, using the counter as a guide to the door. The place that they rented was an old two-bedroom flat. It had a small lounge that opened into an even smaller kitchen, and only two windows—one in Arthur's bedroom; one in the main room—no balcony, peeling, cigarette-yellowed wallpaper, and a broken radiator that hummed. It was too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer. The building itself was dirty and located in a bad part of town, but the rent was cheap.

                Arthur reached the heavy door, yanked the chain off, threw it open, and snapped: " _Yes_?"

                " _Bonjour_ ," said the blue-eyed Frenchman cheerfully.

                Arthur stared at him, mouth agape. The mistaken ID badge suddenly flashed before his eyes.

                Detective Francis Bonnefoi. It was a police badge. When Arthur had first realized what he was holding, he had experienced an array of unwanted feelings, shock being a forerunner; panic, a close second.

                "Oh, shit! Oh, fucking shit!" He had dropped the badge and leapt back as if it was on fire. In retrospect, he was glad that Matthew and Lovino hadn't been there to witness his blunder. "He was a bloody police detective? _Are you fucking kidding me_?" The Frenchman whom he had accidentally tackled—tackled, straddled, and inadvertently groped—had been an undercover officer of the law. "Oh, holy fucking shit!"

                _Oh_ , _holy fucking shit_ , he thought now, face-to-face with the blue-eyed detective.

                The blue-eyed detective who was standing right in front of him in the dingy hallway, mere inches from the flat's threshold, where Arthur Kirkland, the illegal porn actor, lived.

                When Arthur failed to speak, the Frenchman took liberties:

                "Cute pyjamas," he said, indicating the Englishman's flannel bottoms, which were covered in a print of mint-coloured bunnies.

                Arthur went bright scarlet, flushed from his cheeks to his navel, suddenly very aware that he wasn't wearing a shirt. He crossed his arms over his bare chest and tried hard to look impertinent, but he ended up looking cold. "Can I help you?" he said, injecting as much venom into his tone as possible.

                In reply, the Frenchman produced Arthur's wallet from his pocket and held it up. "Trade you?" he said, and extended his free hand.

                Arthur eyed him suspiciously for a moment and then wordlessly retreated to fetch the detective's badge. The Frenchman—gentleman that he was—waited patiently in the open doorway.

                "Here," Arthur said, returning with the badge (and a cardigan).

                The Frenchman took the badge and Arthur's hand. His skin was smooth and warm. "Thank-you," he smiled, squeezing gently. "I'm Francis Bonnefoi, by the way."

                Arthur tensed. "The copper, I know."

                "Is that all you remember about me?"

                Because he thought that saying _I remember the feeling of your groin pressed up against me_ was, perhaps, a trifle too risqué for small-talk between two strangers in a dingy hallway, Arthur said:

                "Yes, that's all."

                Just then, a sleepy voice interrupted:

                "Art—?"

                In the lounge, sprinkled in floating gold dust-motes, grumpy and sleep-deprived, stood Matthew and Lovino.

                Matthew: pale-blonde curls in bouncy disarray, bleary-eyed, and wearing a giant hoodie and a pair of tartan pyjama-shorts, which left his long legs on display.

                Lovino: gravity-defying chocolate hair sticking straight up, scowling as he rubbed sleep from his eyes, and _un_ dressed in nothing but a pair of poppy-red boxer-shorts. The Italian shivered, but he refused to wear clothes to bed. It wasn't comfortable, he said.

                "Who _the fuck_ is at the door?" Lovino growled. "It's not even noon!"

                "Uh..." Arthur did a quick calculation and then pushed Francis into the hallway in secrecy. "Never-mind, just go back to bed!" he called over-the-shoulder, following the Frenchman out. As he closed the door behind him, he saw his roommates' confused faces.

                "Boyfriend?" Francis asked curiously.

                "Cousin and, uh... my roommate," Arthur replied, because he thought calling Lovino a _dirty_ _freeloader_ was too harsh.

                "The blonde—?" Francis inquired.

                "Matthew," Arthur supplied.

                Francis produced a handful of banknotes from his breast-pocket and gave it to Arthur. "I'm afraid I own him an apology. I _am_ sorry about that, but I had to run the serial numbers,  you understand."

                "I didn't steal it," Arthur said, insulted by Francis' assumption. "I _earned_ that money, thank-you very much."

                "Doing what, if I may ask?"

                "I—" Arthur's green eyes narrowed. "No, you may not ask. In fact, I think that you should leave, Detective."

                Francis' lips curled into a sanguine grin. "I like the way you say that. _Detective_ ," he repeated.

                For the record, Arthur did not think his voice had sounded half as husky.

                "I'll go," Francis added, noting the Englishman's annoyance. "But before I do, I need you to promise me that you won't reveal my identity to anyone at Club 69."

                Arthur eyed Francis skeptically. "Oh?" He cocked his hip, arms crossed in an arrogant fashion. He smelled a profit. "And just how much is my silence worth exactly?"

                "Your job, for starters," Francis replied smoothly.

                Arthur frowned. Then his green eyes widened.

                Francis' smile morphed into a devilish grin. "Yes, I know who you are. Granted, it did take a bit of hunting on my part. You're not exactly a porn _star_ , are you, Arthur Kirkland? Or, should I call you _Lexus_? Frankly, I thought that a three-star rating for your last performance was really quite generous."

                Arthur scowled. "You watched a video of me?" he said in alarm.

                "Several, actually." Francis shrugged. "I'm a detective. It was research. As a third-party consumer, however, can I make a small suggestion? You really shouldn't talk on-screen. Let your body do the talking, because your English mouth could be much better occupied."

                " _Get out_!" Arthur snapped, pointing at the stairwell. "Get out of here, you—you— _pervert_!"

                "Yes, yes, I'll go," Francis promised, reversing a step. "Just as soon as I have your word that you won't tell a soul who I really am. Not your employer, not even your roommates. Otherwise—" Arthur threw a fist, which Francis caught. He squeezed it hard and Arthur flinched, surprised by the strength, "—I'll have you charged for all those _very illegal_ films you star in, _chéri_ , and you can kiss your paycheck goodbye."

                "That's blackmail!" Arthur spat, struggling. "What kind of bloody copper are you?"

                "The kind who watches illegal porn in his free time," Francis countered. Arthur glared blackly at him. "So," said the Frenchman, leaning in deviously, "do we have a deal?"

* * *

**MATTHEW**

 Who was that?" asked Matthew when Arthur re-entered. He was brewing coffee at the counter, indulging in the heat and caffeinated scent of the steam. "Art—?"

                "Nobody, just some git," Arthur grumbled as he locked and chained the door.

                Not one to interrogate, Matthew left it alone as Arthur slid onto a barstool and rested his head sleepily on his folded arms. It was quiet. The coffee-maker drizzled; the clock ticked; the shower ran, and Matthew could hear Lovino singing to himself in Italian because he thought they couldn't hear him. _Just another typical morning—uh_ , _afternoon_ , he thought, feeling a touch pathetic as he retrieved two mugs from the overhead cupboard. He poured a sugary coffee for himself, and steeped a tea for Arthur. They drank in silence, so used to the other's companionship that it had long ago become routine. Arthur worked at the newspaper's crossword puzzle while Matthew tried to fashion lunch out of leftover take-away.

                "Oi, Matthew," Arthur said after a while. He sounded contemplative as he tapped a pencil against his temple. "Do you remember seeing a Frenchman at the club last night?"

                "You mean the drop-dead gorgeous one in the grey suit?" Matthew asked rhetorically. He threw a grin over-the-shoulder. "Yes, I vaguely recall him, Art."

                "Uh, yes, whatever. I wasn't paying very close attention. Though he was rather... you know." Arthur gestured noncommittally. "I suppose he was conventionally attractive, perhaps... if you like blue eyes..."

                Matthew cocked a pale eyebrow. "Art, I've known you all my life. I know that you have a weakness for blue eyes, and that Frenchman had the most beautiful blue eyes I've ever seen."

                "Fine, whatever," Arthur dismissed. "That's not the point."

                "Then what's the point?"

                "He's a twat."

                "You have this on good authority, do you?"

                "Don't sass me," Arthur scolded in annoyance. "I happen to know for a fact that he—Cheers," he interjected when Matthew placed a plate of reheated Chinese food in front of him. "Uh—yes, know for a fact that he's big trouble. I'm telling you because I want you to stay away from him."

                Matthew covered his mouth, chewing eggroll. "What if he comes back to the club?" he asked, his mouth full.

                "Serve him, but don't talk to him."

                Matthew swallowed. He regarded his brooding cousin curiously. _Since when does Art have secret vendettas against perfect strangers_? he wondered. It seemed shallow. Then again, the rich, blue-eyed patron _was_ a Frenchman, which was crime enough in Arthur's prejudiced mind. _Whatever_ , _it's not like I get to keep my tips anyway_. "Okay," he promised, and received a satisfied head-bob in reply.

                It was then that Lovino stalked into the room. "Okay, which one of you cheap bastards took my moisturizer? It's expensive!" he exploded when neither confessed.

                "If it's so expensive, stop buying it," Arthur argued. "It's not like you're raking in a six-figure salary, poppet."

                "Oh, puh-lease! I'm getting heat from the fucking porn star? _This_ ," Lovino gestured to his wet, towel-covered body, "is the money-maker, Sherlock. Nobody wants to grope a stripper whose skin feels like fucking sandpaper!"

                "I'll give you back your bloody moisturizer when you return my concealer!" Arthur snapped.

                Lovino scoffed. "I don't have your fucking concealer." He said it like Arthur was the densest person on earth. "Besides the fact that I don't have stupid freckles to hide, I have a completely different skin-tone than you do. Why the fuck would I take your cosmetics? God, Matt's skin is closer in colour to yours than mine is."

                Arthur opened his mouth to retaliate, then closed it. He turned and looked at Matthew, who quickly avoided his cousin's inquisitive gaze. "Matthew?" he asked suspiciously.

                Matthew tried to escape into the bedroom, pretending he hadn't heard, but Arthur grabbed his forearm.

                "What the hell—" he said, pushing back Matthew's messy fringe to reveal a bruise, "—is that?"

                "Nothing," Matthew replied, squirming uncomfortably. "I'm fine— _Ouch_!" In accident, Arthur hit Matthew's ribs and the boy hissed through his teeth.

                Arthur's green eyes widened. Uninvited, he grabbed the hem of Matthew's hoodie and yanked it up, revealing his torso, which was a canvas of tender purple bruises.

                Lovino swore in Italian.

                Arthur gaped. "Bloody-hell, are you okay? Is anything broken? Who did this to you?" he demanded.

                Lovino said: "Seriously, Matt, _what the fuck_?"

                "I said it was nothing!" Matthew snapped, pulling himself free. "Look, I'm sorry I took your concealer, Art. I just need it for tonight. I'll replace it, I promise."

                That said, he retreated into the bedroom, closed the door, and crawled miserably—achingly—back into bed.

* * *

**GILBERT**

I have a brilliant idea!" said Francis, blowing into the office like a whirlwind.

                Gilbert kicked Antonio's desk-chair and the Spaniard bolted upright, feigning wakefulness. "Franny's got an idea in his head," Gilbert drawled, bored. He was spinning in circles in his wheeled desk-chair.

                "Sup—?" Antonio blinked, rubbing his sleepy eyes. His shirt was wrinkled and his tie was flung haphazardly over his shoulder.

                "Are you just getting back now?" Gilbert asked, eyeing Francis like a—well, like a detective. "Where the fuck were you?"

                "I was at Arthur's."

                "Arthur—?" Gilbert glanced at Antonio, who shrugged. "New boy-toy?"

                "No, new lead," Francis said. His word-choice grabbed his partners' interest. Both of them suddenly perked-up like two hunting-dogs on a scent. Francis was pleased. He slid onto Gilbert's perfectly ordered desk (as opposed to Antonio's catastrophe) and cocked  his index-finger suggestively. His partners rolled their chairs closer. Gilbert kicked his legs over Francis' lap; Antonio sat on his chair backwards, laying his chin on the backrest. Then they waited for the Frenchman to discard the theatrics and talk plainly.

                "Arthur is the man from Club 69, the one who left early."

                "How do you know? Did you stalk him?" Gilbert asked.

                "Not exactly." A fleeting look of guilt momentarily crossed Francis' face, but Gilbert blinked and it was gone. "Do you guys remember the blonde bartender and the stripper who slapped Toni?" he asked excitedly. "Okay, good. Because as it turns out, they live with Arthur!"

                " _No_!" Gilbert gasped in mock-surprise. "Oh! Unknowable universe!"

                Antonio snickered. Francis rolled his eyes.

                "So they live together, so what? It's not uncommon in their profession," Gilbert added, rapidly losing interest in Francis' _new lead_. "Who cares?"

                "Well, you will. Or, you _should_ —because we're going to take them out."

                Gilbert cocked a silver eyebrow.

                Antonio very eloquently said: "Huh?"

                "Okay, let me explain," said Francis, giving Gilbert's calve a friendly pat. "We're not getting anywhere on this case, right? We've hit a wall. We've done everything we can from the outside, which is why we're working undercover in the first place. So, what better way to dig deeper into Club 69 than by _interrogating_ a couple of the employees? It'll be work," he added, eyeing Gilbert specifically. Gilbert loved work. (Or, maybe _obsessed_ was a better word. Or, maybe he just didn't have a real life.) "It's perfect," Francis continued proudly. "There are three of them, there are three of us. Now, I know Maths isn't my strongest subject, but I'm pretty sure three plus three equals a triple-date. Oh, come on! We need them for the case! And who knows? Maybe—just _maybe_ ," he lowered his voice seductively, "they need us, too."

                "You want us to date a couple of strippers? Oh! High-school fantasies really _do_ come true!" Gilbert mocked.

                "It'll be fun," Francis promised. "And informative. Toni, you want to take Lovino out, don't you? Lovino—the Italian," he clarified.

                Antonio's green eyes brightened like neon lights and his head shot up. "Oh, hell yes!"

                Francis smirked. "And Gil—? You'll take Mathieu out, right? The—"

                "Bartender, yeah, I puzzled that out."

                Instantly, Gilbert pictured the bartender in his mind. _Matthew._ It was an uninvited picture, but, once there, not unwanted. The boy was a beauty, no doubt about it. _But what if he recognizes me_? Gilbert hadn't told either of his partners _whom_ he had rescued the night before, only that he playfully claimed to be a shining knight ("vigilante," Antonio mumbled). To be honest, neither of them had been interested. Gilbert had dozens of stories like such—some true, more imagined. He was arrogant and he liked to impress. He liked to role-play the white knight, since it was the only acting he got to do. Gilbert Beilschmidt was a shadow. He wasn't meant to be seen, especially not in association with this particular case.

                _If Matthew recognizes me_ , _it could blow-open the whole operation. If I go_ , _then I'm putting Fran and Toni at risk. I have to tell them_ , he realized, ashamed of his unprofessionalism. And yet—

                _If I tell them_ , _they'll be obliged to tell the Chief. There's a chance he'll reassign me. And Franny will choose someone else to date Matthew_.

                That last one shouldn't have been a factor.

                "Please, Gil?" Francis asked, noting the German's hesitance. He pouted sadly. "Honestly, he's really cute. Right, Toni?"

                Antonio shrugged. "Yeah... I kind of still have no idea who you're talking about."

                Francis nodded. "Thanks, Toni," he said sarcastically. "Gil? Gil—? Gil, please?"

                Gilbert sighed. "Oh, stop moaning my name, Fran."

                "If you don't agree to date the bartender, I'll moan louder," Francis threatened.

                Gilbert merely stared at him. He and Francis did this often, had staring-contests that challenged the other to back down first. Gilbert was good at it. He had an intense, defeating gaze. Francis knew this, which is why the crafty Frenchman suddenly took a big, deep breath, threw his head back wantonly, opened his mouth wide, and—

                "Okay, okay!" Gilbert leapt up in surrender. He pressed both of his hands to Francis' mouth. "I'll do it!"

                "Perfect!" Francis smiled, prying Gilbert off. "This plan is absolutely genius, if I do say so myself. Let's ask them out tonight."

                "Tonight?"

                "Yes, tonight. I'm telling you," Francis said, laying a confident hand on each partner's shoulder, "it's a totally foolproof plan. I can't think of a single thing that could go wrong."

* * *

**ANTONIO**

No."

                Antonio pouted as he looked up at the Italian on-stage. "But, Lovino," he said, voice raised to be heard over the music, "you didn't even let me finish—"

                "Don't care," said Lovino mercilessly. He turned his back and continued his routine. Antonio's eyes lingered on the dancer's taut backside. His gorgeous skin glistened with glittery sweat as his figure gyrated shamelessly around a metal pole, moving to the music's slow beat. "Oh, and also," he added tersely, looking at the Spaniard from upside-down, "don't call me Lovino."

                Antonio leant in (careful not to touch the questionable stage). "Why not?" he asked. "It's your name, isn't it? It's a lovely name."

                "Yes," Lovino said, ignoring the compliment, "it _is_ my name, but not in here."

                "Oh, I see. So do you—"

                "Go away."

                Antonio blinked. "But I—"

                "Buy something, or go away."

                Antonio grinned like a cat spotting a field-mouse. He reached into his inside-pocket and produced a wad of rolled banknotes. It took every fibre of his self-discipline not to laugh at the horrified look on Lovino's face when the Italian realized his mistake. Antonio milked the moment. Slowly, he took a step backward and settled onto a loveseat. He cocked his head in an innocent fashion and pat his lap suggestively.

                "So, what _should_ I call you?" he asked, locking his arms around Lovino as the dancer slid begrudgingly onto his lap. (" _I want a big fucking tip_ , _you bastard_ ," he muttered.) His skin was soft and sunshine-warm, wet with beads of sweet sweat. Antonio wanted to lick him. When Lovino only scowled, refusing to make eye-contact, Antonio started to guess: "Sugar? Ginger? Honey? Coco?"

                "Please, stop talking," Lovino deadpanned as he half-heartedly swayed. "And why are they all food anyway?"

                Antonio shrugged. "I guessed at a theme. Club's always have a theme. You know: food, flowers, gemstones."

                "It's cars, actually."

                "Oh, yeah? So what _is_ your stripper-name, Lovi?"

                Lovino stopped, hands braced on Antonio's shoulders. " _Lovi_ —? What the fuck? Is that supposed to be cute?"

                "Isn't it?"

                "No, it's stupid."

                Antonio pouted and batted his thick eyelashes. Lovino flicked his forehead. "Stop that, you look like a creep," he said.

                Antonio smiled. "Oh, come on," he goaded, tickling Lovino's ribs. Lovino squirmed and swatted at him. "Tell me your stripper-name. Which car are you?"

                Lovino glared challengingly at him, his gold-flecked eyes ablaze. It sparked a fiery desire in the Spaniard's, uh... heart. Eventually, the Italian jerked his head to the side, and muttered under his breath:

                " _Ferrari_."

                Antonio threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, God! That's so bad! I love it!"

                "Oh, fuck you, you bastard!" Lovino snapped, going tomato-red in embarrassment.

                It was, possibly, the cutest thing Antonio had ever seen.

                "Seriously, shut up!" Lovino pleaded, glancing from left-to-right. Brazenly, he pressed his hands to Antonio's mouth.

                Deviously, Antonio smirked. "Okay, okay, I'll be good. Unless you want me to be bad—? _Ferrari_."

                This time, Lovino's eyes twinkled and his lips pursed as he tried hard not to laugh. A tremor shook his body; Antonio felt it. "Stupid bastard," Lovino muttered, shaking his head. More seriously, he said: "What are you _really_ doing here, Green Eyes?"

                "My name is Antonio. Antonio Fernández Carriedo."

                "I didn't ask your name. I asked you why you're here." Lovino frowned. "How _did_ you get back in anyway? I saw the bouncers chuck you out last night."

                "Not important," Antonio dismissed. "I came back here," he said, resting his hands gently on Lovino's slight waist, "to ask you out."

                Lovino rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I figured that much out for myself, Lope de Vega. What I don't know is _why_ —? You don't even know me."

                "I want to."

                Lovino feigned gagging. "Oh, God. What a line!"

                Antonio laughed. "I like you, Lovi, you're feisty."

                "Well, you're weird." Smugly, the Italian untangled his limbs and stood. "And don't call me Lovi. Also, I don't date club patrons."

                Antonio stood, as well. "Not even ones as breathtakingly handsome as I?" he joked, wiggling his eyebrows.

                Lovino frowned. "Is that supposed to be your sexy-face? Did you learn the art of seduction from a children's cartoon?"

                Before Antonio could reply, a deep voice called Lovino's stripper-name from the second-floor: " _Ferrari_!"

                He stood on the balcony overlooking the club's floor, looking extremely underdressed in a band t-shirt and a hoodie, but nobody snickered or scowled. Mikkel Densen never dressed-up. It was a detail of his profile; he was the only criminal overlord Antonio had ever encountered who dressed like a teenager. A very, very big, ruthless teenager. Most of the people Antonio convicted liked to flaunt their wealth, but not Densen. He was a naturally handsome man, but the nicest thing about his wardrobe were the two tall blondes hanging off his arms. He pointed a warning finger at Lovino, then jerked it toward the stage.

                "I have to get back to work," said Lovino, deflated. The fire in his eyes had died. Expectantly, he held out his hand.

                Antonio, too, felt ill-at-ease. As much as he enjoyed watching the Italian dance, he didn't want Lovino up on that stage, where other men were free to ogled him. Reluctantly, he chose a few banknotes and placed them into the outstretched hand—including a _big fucking tip_ and his phone number. He folded Lovino's delicate fingers down over it, enveloping his warm hand, and squeezed gently. For a fleeting instant, their eyes met.

                Then the dancer turned away.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

What's behind the red door?" Francis asked, saddling up beside Arthur at the bar. The Frenchman's hawkish gaze had been fixated on the guarded door all night, ever since he had seen the green-eyed Englishman disappear behind it. He suspected it led to illegal activity, of course, but whether it was porn, drugs, or gambling was anyone's guess. As one of the bartenders slid a neat drink across the counter, Francis studied Arthur for clues and nervous ticks.

                Arthur didn't even look at Francis. He stared into the middle-distance as he took a drink, and said: "Sod-off."

                "It's a studio, isn't it?" Francis guessed. He leant in, his lips cheekily close to Arthur's ear. "It's _the_ studio. It's where all of my _perverted_ fantasies are made, isn't it?" Arthur clenched his jaw but didn't speak. Francis continued: "It must be _so_ _hard_. I bet today was a _real hard_ day at the office, wasn't it?"

                Finally, Arthur lost his temper. "Get lost, frog!"

                Francis backed away and resumed a shoulder-to-shoulder position with the short-tempered Englishman. "You're awfully tense for someone who just had sex," he noted.

                He was surprised when the actor snorted mirthlessly. " _Pft_ , hardly," he grumbled unhappily.

                Francis cocked an eyebrow. His observant eyes surveyed the surly actor and noted his flushed face and unfocused gaze, his wet lips, his deep breaths, and the way he shifted uncomfortably from left-to-right, fidgeting. "Oh, I see," he said. His velvety tone caught Arthur's attention, then he lowered his voice to a whisper, and added: "Feeling a bit unsatisfied, _chéri_?"

                Francis' sultry voice and proximity had an immediate effect on Arthur. Francis saw it.

                "Get away from me," he said viciously, before hastily leaving the bar.

                Francis followed. He grabbed Arthur's forearm, ignoring the actor's protest, and pulled, guiding him through the crowd toward the back.

                " _What are you_ —Get off of me!" Arthur snapped breathlessly in panic.

                "Oh, stop whining," said Francis, pushing Arthur indelicately into the empty restroom. There, he released him and locked the door.

                Arthur was red-faced. Reading Francis' intent, he said: "I can take care of myself, _thank-you_."

                "No doubt," said Francis, blue eyes lingering on the actor's groin before recapturing his eyes. "I have a feeling you've been taking care of yourself for a very long time. Why don't you let me take care of you just this once?"

                Experimentally, he stepped forward. Arthur stepped back and soon found himself trapped between Francis and the counter, a wall-mirror reflecting his back. His eyes were bright and wide in disbelief.

                "I'll take really good care of you," Francis promised. He stopped in front of Arthur and cautiously slipped a leg between both of the Englishman's, splaying them. "You won't regret it," he bragged, blue eyes flashing with wicked delight. He pushed his knee against the actor's erect cock and listened hungrily to the delicious groan Arthur emitted. It was involuntary: high and soft and ending on a sharp, agonized gasp. Helplessly, he pressed his uncomfortably stiff length against Francis' knee. "Well?" the Frenchman tempted, hooking a finger into Arthur's belt-loop. "What do you say, _chéri_? Will you let me take care of you—"

                "Shut up!" Arthur snarled, grabbing a fistful of Francis' shirt. Roughly, he tugged the detective closer. "Just— _stop talking_."

                Arthur covered Francis' mouth with his, kissing hungrily. It was wet and hot and soft as he sucked Francis' lips. His tongue was laced with rich liquor. Francis returned the kiss vigorously, his tongue dancing with Arthur's. He scooped the actor up and sat him on the countertop, sliding off his trousers as he did. Arthur's hands grabbed for the Frenchman's long curls as Francis' hand coiled around Arthur's cock. He bowed his head, hiding his face in the crook of Francis' neck as the Frenchman's hand pumped back-and-forth, slick in seconds. He squeeze and stroked and applied pressure to the weeping tip with the base of his thumb, pressure that made Arthur whine throatily in pleasure. His voice in Francis' ear, moaning in erotic agony, encouraged the Frenchman. It was a sweet sound: so was the feel of Arthur's laboured breaths against his skin. Francis had to actively concentrate on his task, otherwise he risked losing himself to desire, too. They didn't speak and they didn't look at each other, but it didn't matter. Francis could feel Arthur's heart pounding. Then the Englishman shuddered and gasped: " _F-fuck_!" and came smoothly in Francis' hand.

                There was a minute of charged silence, before Francis said:

                "Satisfied?"

                He was shocked to see tears in Arthur's blonde eyelashes when he pulled back. Shocked by just how _beautiful_ the Englishman suddenly looked. His soft, wheat-blonde hair was dishevelled in a sexy, bedraggled way, and his shirt was wrinkled, the top buttons undone. Sweat had smudged the concealer off, revealing a patch of pale freckles, which gave his delicate-boned face a charming boyish look. Francis couldn't believe how vulnerable the Englishman looked, trembling like a virgin, gasping to catch his breath—and they hadn't even had sex. _He's been sexually frustrated for a lot longer than I thought_ , he realized, intrigued. He couldn't help but think that, had Arthur's on-screen performances looked like this, he would have been discovered as a porn _star_ a long time ago. There was something irresistible about his eyes: eyes that made him look misleadingly innocent. His red cheeks made his eyes look even greener.

                Green eyes were Francis' favourite.

                "I'm not going to thank you, if that's what you're waiting for," Arthur said, eyes alight in self-defense.

                "I didn't expect you would." Francis ducked in and pecked Arthur's lips, stealing a kiss. "Just go out with me and we'll call it even."

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Matthew was stacking chairs on tables as the bouncers ushered the last patrons out. It had been a long, unproductive night. It was too cold outside, nobody was out on the street. He almost hadn't met his tip quota.

                "Francis asked me out," said Arthur, appearing out of nowhere. Matthew jumped in surprise. "That bloody frog-eater asked me out!"

                "Uh, okay. I assume Francis is the Frenchman?"

                "The frog, yes. He actually expects me to go on a date with him!" Arthur's tone was cruel, but his expression looked more exasperated than angry.

                "So... go?"

                Matthew knew it was the wrong answer as soon as the words left his mouth. Arthur's green eyes widened like a snake's.

                "I mean, why not go?" he amended quickly. "He's really gorgeous."

                "Matthew, poppet," said Arthur, trying to suppress his temper, "I work with a lot of really gorgeous men, and most of them don't know where to stick their fucking dicks."

                "I know, Art, but Francis seemed a little more mature than the guys you work with, don't you think? And he's French," he added suggestively. "You know what they say about the French, don't you?"

                "That they're rude, noisy, self-centered, can't drive?" Arthur mock-guessed. Matthew rolled his eyes. "Being French isn't a pro, pet, it's a con. A very big con. If I go out with him, then I'll actually have to spend the whole evening with a _Frenchman_."

                "So, you rejected him?"

                "Well... not exactly."

                Arthur broke eye-contact and began picking distractedly at the peeling veneer on the bar. Matthew didn't say a word. He waited patiently, expertly outlasting his cousin's stubbornness.

                "I'm going out with him," Arthur mumbled, "under protest—"

                Matthew smiled in encouragement. "I'm sure it'll be fine—"

                "—and you're coming with me," Arthur finished.

                Matthew blinked, sure that he had misheard. "Pardon?"

                "I'm spending tomorrow evening with Francis, and you're coming with me, Matthew."

                "I'm not going to third-wheel your date—"

                "He has a friend," Arthur elaborated. "It's a double-date."

                "A blind-date, you mean," said Matthew unhappily. He crossed his arms, hip cocked. It caused his uniform to ride up, revealing bits of wintery skin, but nobody was there to leer so the Canadian-born boy didn't care. It was much too hot in the stuffy club, besides. "Why am I being recruited?" he asked.

                "Firstly, because he asked if I had a friend for his friend, and I do: you," Arthur noted. "And secondly—and I really can't stress this enough— _I don't want to be left alone with the fucking frog-eater_! Please, Matthew? You have to come. It'll be much better if we're both there. That way, if they're both complete freaks, we can escape together. Just like we used to do in high-school, right?"

                "I was in high-school, you were... not," Matthew said shortly.

                "What about The Pact?"

                "Oh, come on, Art! It's been ten years since The Pact! I was just a kid, it was hardly binding."

                "Then why did it have the word _eternity_ in it?" Arthur countered. He folded his arms, mimicking Matthew's defensive posture.

                For a minute they glared at each other. Then a bubble of laughter escaped Matthew and he doubled-over the counter, his head in his hands. Arthur, too, laughed unattractively.

                "Oh my God, The Pact," Matthew said nostalgically.

                "The Pact," Arthur repeated, smiling now as well. He waited a minute, then nudged Matthew's arm. "So—?"

                Sighing deeply, Matthew surrendered. " _Fine_ ," he said in self-sacrifice. "I'll do it. I'll go with you."

                Arthur's smile curled deviously, eyes still snake-like in triumph. "I knew you would. That's why I volunteered you and not Lovino. Oh, and because the mere thought of spending a whole evening alone with a Frenchman _and_ that lazy Italian makes me want to start smoking again."

                "Charming," said Matthew sarcastically. He straightened and readjusted his uniform, re-buttoning the sides. "So, who is this mysterious friend of the French Casanova who convinced Arthur Kirkland to go on a date?"

                "I have no idea."

                "Well, does he have a name?" Matthew asked, grabbing his coat.

                "Presumably, yes."

                "Well, do you know what it is?"

                "Not a bloody clue. Sorry, I was a little, uh... preoccupied when Francis suggested we make it a double. But," he brightened, wrapping an arm around Matthew's shoulders as they walked to the side-door, "he can't possibly be worse than Francis the Frog, so that should be some comfort. Oi," he added, ruffling Matthew's curls, "I'm sure it'll be fine. It's a free meal, if nothing else. And if it really is unbearable, we'll just go through the fire-escape, right, pet?"

                Matthew looked at his older cousin, his best-friend, and surrendered again; this time, for real. Affectionately, he leant against Arthur. He had to slouch a bit because he was taller, but the effect of their sides pressed together was comforting. It was familiar. The truth was, he would have agreed to anything Arthur asked.

                "Right," he said.

* * *

**LOVINO**

About time!" Lovino complained when Arthur and Matthew arrived at the flat, toting prepackaged sushi for supper. It was a little out-dated, but half-price because of it. ("Don't eat the wasabi," Arthur advised.) Matthew handed Lovino a pair of chopsticks, which the Italian wielded with gusto, like an angry orchestra conductor.

                "I'm starving!" he whined. "What took you so long? Actually, never-mind. Get this. You guys seriously won't _believe_ who had the balls to ask me out tonight—"

                "The Spaniard?" his roommates guessed in union.

                Lovino blinked, taken aback. "Uh, well, yes," he admitted, deflating. "How did you know?"

                "It's been forty-eight hours and you haven't shut up about him," said Arthur irritably. "I bet I could guess his bloody measurements."

                Lovino scowled, then looked to Matthew, expecting him to disagree. "Matt—?"

                Hastily, Matthew shoved a piece of sushi into his mouth to avoid answering.

                "Well, whatever. I'm only mentioning him now because he's a fucking pervert," said Lovino defensively. "I'm the victim here, okay? He's a sneaky bastard. He even gave me his fucking number!" he said, shoving a piece of paper across the countertop, as if it offended him.

                Matthew looked at it. "Okay then, _Ferrari_ ," he said, reading the note, which called Lovino by his stage-name.

                Lovino bristled. "Oh, shut up, _Mercedes_ ," he countered.

                Matthew rolled his eyes. Arthur said: "What did you say? To the Spaniard, I mean."

                "I said no, of course. I'm not going out with that stupid letch, even if it does include a free meal," said Lovino indignantly. "Speaking of, I'm broke—again. So, what's the plan for eating tomorrow?"

                Tomorrow was the trio's only day-off because Club 69 was closed on Sunday. But though they all cherished their Sundays, it meant no pay-check, which often meant a questionable meal. Especially if they were due for a loan payment, like this week. Aunt Madeline had left a considerable debt to a very shady loan-shark, who hounded Arthur and Matthew each month. As such, sometimes a simple day off meant not eating at all.

                "It was so fucking slow tonight. I barely earned bus-fare," Lovino exaggerated sulkily. "So—tomorrow?"

                "Oh, uh, actually..." Arthur and Matthew exchanged a guilty look. "Matthew and I are going on a double-date tomorrow evening," said Arthur.

                Lovino was rendered momentarily speechless. " _You_? You two have _dates_? With who?"

                "A couple of club patrons. Look, it's not a big deal—"

                "Oh, holy fuck! Call the fucking press! Arthur Kirkland has a date!"

                "Oh, sod-off, Lovino," Arthur snapped. "Of course I date."

                "I have literally never seen you go on a date."

                "Well, I do. I just haven't been out for a while. Not since I—" Arthur stopped abruptly, but it hardly mattered. Lovino knew what he was going to say:

                _Not since your director forbid you_ , Lovino knew. Apparently, Arthur's on-screen performance was better if he _wasn't_ getting regular attention off-screen. It made him more desperate for it while working, more likely to come.

                "Fine, whatever," he reversed the topic. "Date away, Romeo. I just want to know what I'm supposed to do for supper tomorrow if you're both gone?"

                There was a moment of silence, then, sheepishly, Matthew pushed Antonio's phone-number back across the countertop.

                Lovino sighed in defeat. "Fuck."


	4. Three

**ARTHUR**

_That's_ what you're wearing?"

                Arthur clenched his jaw, counted to three, exhaled, and turned to face Lovino's disapproval. Since the Italian had moved-in, Arthur faced sneers and jeers about his wardrobe almost daily. Just because Lovino cared about his looks and followed fashion fads, and just because he was overindulgent and spent his paycheck on clothes and cosmetics didn't mean that Arthur did—or even wanted to. There were much more practical things to buy in his pragmatic opinion. Besides, he never could have worn the styles Lovino did. He would have looked ridiculous. No, the Englishman's style was timeless and he liked it that way. But as Arthur turned to face Lovino, ready to defend his choice of attire, he realized that it wasn't he who had incurred the Italian's artistic criticism. Not this time.

                "What?" Matthew asked innocently, staring down at himself.

                " _What_?" Lovino repeated in disbelief. " _That's_ what you wear on a first date? Seriously, Matt, _jeans_?"

                Matthew shrugged. "I like jeans, they're comfortable—"

                "They're threadbare," Lovino countered, plucking at a fraying string. "And you," he pointed at Arthur, "don't think I didn't notice _you_."

                "Oh, bloody-hell," Arthur grumbled. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with my clothes. We've been over this a dozen times, Lovino, they're classic."

                "Classic is an understatement," Lovino scoffed, "they're prehistoric. When is your date, Grandpa, the 1800s? And I'm sorry, Mattie, you look absolutely perfect... if your date is taking you to a sketchy back-alley to pass a bottle around a flaming trash bin. Don't you have any clothes that actually fit you? Oh!" He snapped his fingers. "Yes, you do! I know exactly what you're going to wear tonight! Don't move, I'll be right back."

                "Lovino, we don't have time for this!" Arthur called, but Lovino ignored him.

                "It's called being _fashionably late_ , Gramps," he said, returning with several articles of clothing flung over his arm. He looked like an exuberant shopkeeper, ordering Matthew to strip down and re-dress. When he was finished he stepped back to admire his work, like an artist gazing upon a completed masterpiece. "Ha! There!" He smirked in self-satisfaction. "That's much better. _Now_ you look like a real catch, Matt."

                Shyly, Matthew looked to Arthur for approval.

                Admittedly, the violet-eyed boy looked wonderful. Lovino's keen eye had dressed him in clothes that worked to preserve his natural pale beauty while accenting his tall, slender figure. He looked as graceful as a willow bough. In a few short minutes, the boy had been transformed from a threadbare street-urchin into a heartbreaking film-star.

                "It's fine," Arthur said grudgingly. "It has to be, since we don't have time to change."

                "But—" Lovino reached for Arthur, who swatted at him.

                "I said no, you fiend! My regular clothes are perfectly acceptable for meeting the frog-eater. It's barely even a date. I'm not going to spend all night dressing to impress a bloody _Frenchman_."

                Lovino sighed in mock-exhaustion, as if Arthur had missed a critical point. "But that's exactly _why_ you need to look your best!" he insisted. "Don't you want him to eat his heart out? Don't you want to make him drool over what he can't have? Don't you want to make him _suffer_?"

                Rather than regale Lovino and Matthew with the restroom episode and the fact that, technically, Francis had already, _ahem_ , indulged in Arthur, the Englishman shifted the conversation to focus on Lovino.

                "You are pure evil, aren't you?" he asked rhetorically. Lovino merely shrugged. "Is that why you're dressed to the nines?" Arthur asked, referring to Lovino's carefully chosen attire. He had spent quite a long time in his bedroom preparing for his date with Antonio, and he, too, now looked like he belonged on the Silver Screen.

                Lovino narrowed his eyes, but before he could reply, Matthew interrupted:

                "We really _are_ going to be late, Art."

                "Yes," Arthur agreed, ensnared in a staring-contest with Lovino, "you're right, let's go."

                "Have a good night, Lovino," Matthew called in goodbye.

                "You too, Matt! Have fun on your double-date with Grandpa!"

                Arthur slammed the door closed behind him as he ushered Matthew out.

                "Dear Lord, he's persistent. I mean, really, who does that little tart think he is?"

                Matthew shrugged, keeping quiet. It was then the Englishman paused on the sidewalk and cast his cousin a considerate glance. His freckled face softened. "I'm sorry, pet. You really do look very nice.

                "But _really_!" he resumed, stalking down the filthy street. "I think that bloody frog would shag a fire-hydrant if he fancied it, so what the fuck does it matter what _I'm_ wearing? He's the one who asked _me_ out, after all. If he didn't like my looks, he shouldn't have proposed a date. This is all the effort he's getting from me. The day I dress to impress a Frenchman is the day hell freezes over."

                Matthew chuckled. "Yes, Art," he said obediently, following him down the street.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

No," said Francis, opening the door to Gilbert. They had agreed to meet at Francis' flat before going to the restaurant, where Francis had texted Arthur to meet him. _And I thought Arthur would be my only problem tonight_ , he thought, looking upon the German's unfashionable attire. He shook his head vehemently. "You are _not_ wearing that tonight. You absolutely cannot wear jeans on a first date."

                Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't start, Fran. I'm twenty-seven-years-old, I'll wear whatever the fuck I want."

                "Gil, _please_?" Francis whined. "This is important. You've got to make a good first impression, and right now you look like a gang-member. Do you own anything that's not pitch black? Oh, come on!" he begged when the German shook his head. "You've got to meet me halfway here. Please? We're going to a _very_ nice restaurant."

                "I know," Gilbert acknowledged, thinking himself very clever. He gestured at his jeans. "See? These are black jeans, so at a distance they look like dress trousers."

                "No," Francis repeated, pinching the bridge of his nose, "they _really_ don't. And you can't keep your date at a distance, Gil. Don't you want to look your best to meet Mathieu? It _is_ a blind-date, after all. Aren't you hoping that he looks nice, as well?"

                "He could wear a paper-bag for all I care," Gilbert deadpanned.

                "Gil," Francis whined. "I _know_ you own a suit, so why aren't you wearing it?"

                "I hate suits."

                "But you look so good in a suit," Francis complimented.

                Gilbert shrugged. "I never said I didn't. I said I hate them."

                Francis frowned. "Could you please at least pretend to enjoy tonight? It's important for the mission, Gil. This is what it's like to go undercover. It's absolutely imperative that you make the target believe you, even if you have to cheat and lie. He has to trust you if he's going to tell you anything. He has to trust that you'll protect him if he betrays his employer, and this," he poked at Gilbert's weathered leather jacket, "does not inspire trust. At least let me fix your hair," he begged, picking at the short strands that hung in roguish disarray.

                Gilbert's silver hair was exceptionally fine, like spider silk. Francis had always wanted to style it, because the German didn't do it himself; he merely pushed it back out of his eyes. But he refused to let the Frenchman touch it. In fact, the headstrong German refused to take Francis or Antonio's advice at all wherein his appearance was concerned, too sure it was a waste of time. "What does it matter?" he argued. "I'm not _pretty_ like you two." For as long as Francis had known him, Gilbert had always avoided mirrors and shiny surfaces, refusing to meet his own red-eyed reflection. He often made self-degrading jokes about his albinism, but Francis was an apt people-reader and guessed that Gilbert joked to hide how self-conscious he truly was, wearing his _malady_ like armour to protect himself. It was sad, Francis thought. He, himself, had a talent for seeing the beauty in others, especially the attractive German.

                _You just need to stop hiding behind all of those black clothes_ , he knew.

But nothing that he or Antonio said could change Gilbert's mind. Nothing they advised could make him care about his appearance.

                _It's not our approval he needs_. _We're his friends_ , _so by default our opinions don't count._

                As if on-cue, Gilbert slapped at Francis' exploratory hand. "No," he said in annoyance. "Leave my hair alone, it's fine. Let's just go, okay?"

                Francis sighed in defeat. "Yes, fine. But if they refuse you entrance into the restaurant, I'm not helping you."

                "Quit worrying so much, Fran, it'll give you wrinkles," Gilbert teased, flicking Francis' forehead to lighten the mood. "They're not going to refuse me entry." He grinned wickedly and flashed Francis a glance at his inner-pocket.

                " _You're armed_?" Francis gaped in alarm. "Not only are you wearing jeans on a first date, but you brought a gun along, as well? Oh, dear Lord. For his sake, I sincerely hope Mathieu isn't skittish."

* * *

**GILBERT**

Gilbert was leaning against the restaurant's facade in the busy parking-lot, wondering if they weren't being stood-up—he hated tardiness—when a winded English accent suddenly called-out:

                "Oh, so sorry we're late!"

                A green-eyed blonde in a tartan overcoat hurried across the lot to meet he and Francis, his wheat-blonde hair a mess of short, wind-swept locks. He was the maybe-drug-dealer from Club 69, and he was toting the bartender with him. Except, the younger boy no longer looked like the slutty bartender whom Gilbert had indirectly met a few nights previous. He was, as Francis had promised, really cute. Like, _really_ fucking cute. Yet, as he was being introduced—

                "This is my cousin, Matthew," said Arthur.

                Francis replied: "It's a pleasure to officially meet you, _chéri_. And this," he waved for Gilbert, "is my very good friend, Gilbert."

                —Matthew looked fragile, as if a harsh word might break him. But not because of his physique.

                He was a tall boy, taller than everyone except Gilbert, with long limbs and a gently sloping figure that swelled with subtle curves—nothing alike his skinny English cousin. And nothing like the other dancers at Club 69. He wasn't made-up and he didn't look fake. There was nothing crafted about his appearance, except for a keen choice of attire. (Suddenly, Gilbert wished he had taken Francis' latent advice and worn a suit.) Maybe Gilbert had been in his line-of-work for too long, but he couldn't deny that the boy had a figure worth paying for. Even with the angel curls and that innocent smile, the slender height that qualified him to be a runway model and the curves that looked like a pinup poster were more than the German had bargained for.

                _He's not just cute_ , he admitted in secret, _he's beautiful._

                And yet, Matthew still somehow managed to look smaller and less significant than everyone else present. It may have been his demure expression or his timid mannerisms. Or maybe it was that he didn't make eye-contact with anyone—yes, that was it. It was in the eyes, Gilbert decided. Violet eyes that revealed Matthew's unease.

                At first Gilbert thought it was because of him—and it might have been; he wasn't the kindest looking man—or, it might have been because of the bruise darkening Matthew's cheekbone. Concealer had been applied so expertly to cover it that Gilbert wouldn't have noticed it if he didn't already know it was there, but he did know and it made him feel guilty for not stepping in sooner.

                _I guess you really are that bartender_ , he acknowledged, still baffled by the boy's transformation. But there was no mistaking those frightened eyes.

                "Nice to meet you," Matthew said in the soft, timid voice Gilbert remembered. Briefly, his gaze met Gilbert's and he blushed shyly, and in that moment Gilbert was glad for the cover of sunset, because he felt his face redden un-awesomely in reply. Matthew reached out to shake Gilbert's hand, but the German misread the intent and took his hand and half-raised it to kiss, like a courtesan.

                "Oh, uh... yeah, me too, with you..." he said as he fumbled and quickly dropped Matthew's hand. "So, uh—?" Ineloquently, he bobbed his head toward the restaurant's entrance.

                Francis cast him a curious look, which plainly questioned the German's ability to interact with other human-beings. It seemed to say: _What is wrong with you_? _We're not even in the restaurant and you've already fucked it up_!

                Or, maybe that was Gilbert's imagination based on how he felt.

                Aloud, Francis said: "Shall we?"

                Politely he offered Arthur his arm, which the Englishman hesitantly took. Both of them looked rather smug about it, but Gilbert didn't think he could pull off the same gentlemanly trick so smoothly, so he merely held the door open for his date, and was rewarded with a pretty smile in thanks.

                His heartbeat pounded like a marathon runner's as he willed all the blood out of his face. He followed at the back of the  small party as they were led into the restaurant, trying to regain his composure and map a better strategy, but found himself staring shamelessly at his date's backside. Heedless of the wait-staff or direction, he took advantage as long as his indiscretion went unnoticed and the foursome were seated at a table beside the windows. Despite the host's disapproving glare, Gilbert indulged in a private grin. He might have been cohered into Francis' plot against his better judgement, but—

                He returned Matthew's shy smile as they sat down side-by-side.

                —at least he had something _really fucking cute_ to look at for the date's duration.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Tell me now," Arthur whispered to Francis as they sat, "is your friend a copper?"

                "Yes," Francis replied, removing his coat.

                Arthur tensed. He stared indiscreetly across the table, feeling overprotective as the red-eyed albino sat down next to Matthew. Having met Francis, Arthur had been expecting another smooth-talking playboy, not—he took note of the German's black street-clothes and his rough manners, looking very out-of-place in the upscale restaurant—the fierce-looking man sitting disconcertingly close to Arthur's teenage cousin. If Gilbert had of been like Francis, Arthur would not have worried. Matthew had learnt to keep a polite distance from Club 69's patrons, who were much more alike Francis than Gilbert. However, the boy seemed to be receptive to Gilbert's casual posture and arrogant grin more than he would have if Gilbert were trying to flatter him, and _that's_ what made Arthur worry.

                _Don't get too comfortable_ , _Matthew_ , he thought. _He's a bloody copper_ , _they both are. They're just using us. This whole night is nothing more than a ruse._

                "I don't want Matthew getting mixed up in whatever game you're playing," he warned Francis.

                Francis smiled gently in reassurance. "He'll be safe with Gilbert, I promise."

                Arthur's look was skeptical. _He's not even safe now_ , he thought, eyeing Matthew's cheek. The boy had done a good job of concealing his bruise. No one would see it if they didn't know it was there, but it still made Arthur anxious. Gilbert was a relatively large man. He was tall and—the German removed his jacket—corded with lean muscle. He was very athletic-looking and strong. Arthur could feel it in his dominating presence and the heat of his pale body. He had known many men like Gilbert before and he didn't trust a single one of them. Men like Gilbert loved power, and they loved to display it even more. It would be nothing for the bold German, the police detective, to abuse his position and hurt Matthew if he wanted to. And Matthew, Arthur knew from experience, would let it happen. He wouldn't fight to defend himself. He never did.

                _If Matthew gets hurt_ , _it'll be my fault_ , he thought uneasily.

                Just then, Arthur felt Francis' hand squeeze his knee beneath the table. His blue eyes seemed to say: _Don't be anxious_ , _it's okay. Trust me._

                Slowly, Arthur relaxed.

                The waiter arrived to deliver menus and take drink orders.

                "The wine list, please," said Arthur and Francis in perfect union. They glanced at each other in surprise, then both pretended it hadn't happened. Together, they chose a prime vintage (Francis because he liked expensive wines, and Arthur because Francis was paying for it).

                Gilbert ordered beer.

                Matthew ordered water.

                They mused over the menus for a little while. Francis recommended a selection of appetizers and entrées, all rather pricy. If he was showing-off, it was working. Arthur hadn't been treated to such an exquisite menu—well, _ever_. When he couldn't decide between two entrées, Francis simply suggested he order both and take all the leftovers home.

                "Order whatever you like, _chéri_ ," said the Frenchman generously. "I want you to enjoy tonight."

                That's when a wonderful, wicked idea struck Arthur. As long as he chose entrées that wouldn't spoil quickly, then he could order enough food to last several days. It wasn't as if Francis couldn't afford it, after all. He smirked.

                _Oh_ , _you really shouldn't have said that_ , _frog-eater_.

                When the waiter returned to take their meal orders, Arthur prattled off a long list of entrées without taking a breath. Then he stifled a laugh when he saw the disgruntled look on Francis' face. He was feeling rather pleased with himself, until Matthew gave his order. The boy ordered a small salad dish, which was the cheapest thing on the menu, and insisted that water was fine.

                "Are you sure that's going to be enough?" Gilbert inquired, looking skeptically at Matthew.

                "Oh, yes. I don't really have much of an appetite."

                _Liar_. Arthur stared suspiciously at the Canadian. _You usually eat more than I do._ When he caught Matthew's eye, it was ice-cold. Arthur frowned. _What are you angry with me for_? _What did I do_?

                "Matthew—? You're _sure_ that's all you want?" he asked, goading the boy.

                "Yes, Art, that's all."

                Arthur nudged Matthew's foot under the table, trying to convey a silent message: _For God's sake_ , _order more to eat_! _We don't have to pay for it_! but Matthew just kicked him in return.

                Before Arthur could retaliate, a very familiar voice broke the peaceful ambiance.

                "Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me!" said Lovino unhappily.

* * *

**ANTONIO**

**ONE HOUR AGO**

Hey, Lovi!" Antonio yelled, waving to attract the Italian's attention. He had been pacing back-and-forth in front of the dry fountain in the park for half-an-hour, waiting impatiently for his date to arrive. He was starting to fear that he was being stood-up when he spotted Lovino sauntering at a leisurely pace. He strode off eagerly to meet him on the gravel footpath, his impatience evaporating as his eyes drank in Lovino's beauty, illuminated by a lamppost's flickering glow.

                " _Oh_ , _wow_!" he said in appreciation, green eyes ravishing his date. "Lovi, you look fantastic!"

                Lovino crossed his arms and cocked a hip, body angled arrogantly, yet failing to hide a blush behind a bored eye-roll. A silky lock of dark hair fell over his forehead. He pushed it back and sighed, full lips pouted (intentionally?).

"That's stating the obvious, but thank-you," he said, eyeing the Spaniard in exchange. His hazel eyes were flecked with gold and framed with thick black lashes that gave them a catlike slant. "You, uh... look nice, too," he muttered, cheeks blushing redder.

                Antonio smiled. It felt unbelievably good to have Lovino's approval—especially since he had spent the better part of late-afternoon glaring at his reflection in frustrated indecision. Just because his date with Lovino was a ploy to extract information about Club 69 didn't mean he couldn't look good while doing it.

                _He's so beautiful_ , he thought, ulterior-motives flung out of mind as he offered the Italian his arm in escort.

                Lovino narrowed his eyes suspiciously before taking it. Then he hugged close to steal the Spaniard's body-heat.

                "So," he said as they set off, "where are you taking me, Green Eyes?"

                "Uptown," Antonio replied, hoping to impress Lovino. However, the dancer made a noncommittal noise and changed the topic. He was not someone easily flattered, Antonio realized. He was a dancer at a strip-club: he probably spent all night dodging cat-calls, wolf-howls, and suggestive compliments from strange men. He wouldn't be flattered by words. He wouldn't let himself be bought so cheaply. Despite his illicit profession, Lovino was a very classy young man who carried himself with an air of superiority that one did not acquire living in poverty. _Who are you really_ , _Lovi_? Antonio wondered, studying the Italian. Beautiful street-urchins with Lovino's entitled attitude were rarely self-made. They lived by attaching themselves to a rich, powerful man and relying on his charity.

                Antonio's step faltered as he thought of Lovino being a rich club patron's pet. He didn't like it. He didn't like thinking of Lovino that way, exchanging some man's pampering for—

                _NO_.

                Antonio shook his head to expel the unappetizing mental-image. It would only upset him, and he had to keep those negative feelings locked-up. He took a deep, therapeutic breath and let it out slowly. He hadn't realized that he had closed his eyes or slowed his pace almost to a stop, until Lovino said:

                "Are you okay?"

                Antonio's eyes snapped open and he looked down at Lovino, who's face revealed concern. _Oh_ , _fuck_. He had gotten lost in his head again, sinking into painful memories. _Stupid_! _Get a hold of yourself_!

                "Yes, of course!" he said to Lovino, forcing a cheerful smile. It wouldn't do to show his true (possessive) self so early. It would only scare Lovino. Instead, he nudged the dancer gently. "I'm flattered that you care, _Ferrari_."

                Lovino scoffed and playfully punched Antonio's ribs. " _Don't call me that_!"

                Antonio laughed and hailed a taxi-cab.

* * *

  **LOVINO**

Lovino didn't know what had caused Antonio's sudden change in demeanor, but based on the Spaniard's reaction, he guessed it was something unpleasant. And private. Lovino had no desire to play therapist to yet another head-case. He didn't want to be burdened with anyone's emotional-baggage but his own. His own was more than enough, and it was all rapidly returning to him as the taxi-cab took them into the heart of uptown. As the streets became cleaner and the city brighter, white lights reflecting off glass skyscrapers, Lovino felt a fist of unease clench his stomach. Suddenly, he didn't feel hungry. He felt car-sick.

                "Are _you_ okay?" Antonio asked. He looked worried.

                "Yes, fine," Lovino grumbled. "I just... I don't like long car rides," he lied.

                "Oh, okay. Driver!" Antonio called.

                The taxi-cab let them off in front of a large department store, which employed a doorman who used to call Lovino _young sir_ whenever he visited.

                "I'm sorry," said Antonio, misreading Lovino's nostalgia for nausea. "I didn't know."

                "Oh, you don't have to..." He trailed off, looking up into Antonio's earnest green eyes. _Ah_ , _fuck it_. "Thanks," he said softer, leaning into the Spaniard's warm body.

                "The restaurant's not far," Antonio promised, leading Lovino. "I think you'll like it."

                _I like this_ , Lovino thought, gently squeezing Antonio's bicep. It felt good to have the Spaniard's strong, solid body so close. In a moment of weakness, he found himself hoping that they would never reach the restaurant, freeing them to walk the city together all night. And yet... Every step down Main Street brought back bitter-sweet memories of his life before Club 69. He remembered the streets and shops, the feeling of being weighted down by bags; the cafés and hotel lounges, where he had learnt to drink at too young an age, getting tipsy on cocktails served in fine crystal; the parks and gardens, where he used to waste his afternoons painting. He felt a pang of regret when he spotted the University he had once attended, it's artistic rooftops rising in the distance like cathedral spires. He fought down an unexpected wave of emotion as they passed a favourite café, where he and his younger brother used to have supper after a day of shopping; gossiping about people they knew; criticising the men the other was dating. He remembered how their chauffer would have to circle the block half-a-dozen times while waiting for them. But most of all, Lovino remembered the exact street-corner where he had met _him_.

                "Lovi—?" interrupted Antonio. "You're awfully quiet. Are you feeling okay?"

                Lovino sucked back a sob. Antonio's voice was so soft in concern. It was protective. Unexpectedly, it touched the Italian's guarded heart. "Mm hmm."

                "Oh, this is it!" Antonio smiled, his pace quickening.

                Lovino knew the restaurant, though it had been a long time since he had dined there. (The last time had been for Feliciano's thirteenth birthday.) It was a nice place.

                They left their coats at the coat-check and then followed the host, who ushered them to a table near the back windows, which overlooked the harbour. Lovino was comforted by the feeling of Antonio's hand laying between his shoulder-blades. It wasn't at all possessive, only reassuring. It said: _I'm here_ , _right behind you_. Lovino really liked the feeling. He began to relax, thinking that— _maybe_ —the night would be salvageable after all. That is, until he recognized the party seated directly across from he and Antonio.

                "Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me!" he said unhappily.

* * *

**GILBERT**

_Toni_?" said Francis in bewilderment.

                Gilbert twisted in his seat and saw Antonio staring back in confusion. _Oh_ , _fuck_ , he worried, glancing between them. Francis looked as if Antonio had just single-handedly ruined his plan of espionage; Antonio looked as if he had just swallowed a bug. Gilbert sat back, hoping to avoid taking sides. He glanced at his wristwatch. It had only been a matter of time before _something_ went wrong, of course, Francis' plan was far from fool-proof. But even Gilbert didn't think it would happen so quickly.

                _It's okay_ , he thought logically, _Fran and Toni are both pros at improv. They're both actors_ , _they'll come up with an excuse. It'll be fine. They'll put on a show and our dates will totally believe it. There's nothing at all to worry about. It's all going to be fine._

Gilbert waited. And waited. And waited.

                _Any time now_ , _guys._

                Maybe it was the surprise that crippled them, or their inquisitive young audience. Whatever the problem, Francis and Antonio continued to stare at each other in bewilderment, until Antonio finally said:

                "Uh.... hey. What are you guys doing here?" He glanced fleetingly at Gilbert, then to Francis for an answer.

                 "What are _we_ doing here?" Francis repeated. He glanced quickly at Arthur—who was frowning—and forced a smile, as if seeing Antonio was nothing but a pleasant surprise. (A little late on the uptake, but better than nothing.) He stood to greet his friend, each kissing the other's cheeks to hide a hushed exchange, but Gilbert was seated close enough to hear them:

                "I told you anywhere but here!" Francis said sternly.

                "No," Antonio corrected, "you said _you_ were going anywhere but here."

                "What? No. Why would I say that? I said—"

                As Francis and Antonio argued, feigning pleasantries, Gilbert took note of Antonio's date. The Italian looked equally as disgruntled, though his face was red. Maybe he was blushing, maybe he had high blood-pressure. Gilbert didn't care. Nor did he care about Francis' date, who's eyes were narrowed indignantly, ready to place blame. The only person Gilbert actually cared about—the only person he was responsible for tonight—was Matthew. The boy's blonde head was cocked in curiosity, trying to piece the puzzle together. That's when Gilbert realized, if he was close enough to hear Francis and Antonio's conversation, then Matthew was, as well. Doubtless, the bartender recognized both men from Club 69, which is why they had intended to keep the dates separate. If he or anyone else started to ask questions, though...

                _Oh_ , _fuck_.

                Impulsively, Gilbert leapt up. "Hey, look!" he said too loudly, drawing attention. "They have an aquarium at the bar! Let's check it out!"

                Over-eager, he yanked Matthew up and ushered him out of ear-shot, throwing his partners an annoyed look over-the-shoulder as he did. _Fix it_! he mouthed, frustrated with them both as he led his charge away. Fortunately, Matthew didn't fight. He simply followed Gilbert's insistent lead, a look of mild bewilderment on his face.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

What's going on here, frog?" Arthur said, squeezing between Francis and Antonio. "I'm Arthur Kirkland, by the way," he introduced himself with mock-sweetness. "And you—well, you must be _Antonio_ ," he drawled, eyeing Lovino. The Italian was waiting at his and Antonio's table, red-faced in embarrassment. He looked surprisingly vulnerable, as if he had just realized he was the punch-line of a cruel joke. Arthur actually felt bad for him. Maybe that's why he lowered his voice to a threatening whisper, and added: "Should I call you _Detective_ , as well?"

                Antonio's eyes widened. " _He knows_?" He looked at Francis, who nodded. "Why the fuck does he know?"

                "Never-mind that now," Francis dismissed. He cast an anxious glance at Lovino, who was eyeing the trio self-consciously. "Arthur, do me a favour, won't you, _chéri_? Take Lovino to the restroom for, like, five-minutes. Toni and I need to get something sorted."

                Arthur clenched his jaw, feeling defensive. He disliked taking orders. "Tell me, frog," he said coldly, "are you planning on using _all_ of my friends for your game?"

                Francis flinched at the verbal-blow; Arthur saw it. He saw the panic in the Frenchman's blue eyes. "I'm sorry, of course not," he said gently. "I—I'll explain later, okay? I promise."

                "You'll _what_?" Antonio gaped in disbelief. Francis ignored him.

                "Right now, I really need you to play along," he said. "Please? It's to everyone's benefit, I assure you. Arthur," he repeated impatiently. He lowered his voice. "Do you _want_ Lovino to know that his date with Antonio is a ruse?"

                Arthur paused. He recalled how excited Lovino had been while getting ready that afternoon; how much time and effort he had spent making himself look perfect; how much he had talked (complained) about the Spaniard whom his thoughts were completely preoccupied with. Arthur and Lovino might not have had the best relationship, but they didn't dislike each other. In fact, Arthur was rather (secretly) fond of the colourful Italian. He had spirit, which Arthur admired. He didn't want to see Lovino get hurt.

                _If anything you do hurts Lovino or Matthew_ , he thought, eyeing the detectives wearily, _I'll make certain you regret it._

                Francis had hit on a nerve: Arthur's need—selfishness, even—to protect those in his care. It was bad enough that the detectives were using the three of them like pawns, but at least Lovino and Matthew were ignorant of it. And perhaps that was for the best.

                "Fine," Arthur agreed. Glaring at Francis, he started toward the restroom and signalled for Lovino to follow.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Do you, uh... want a drink?" Gilbert asked, indicating the bar opposite the aquarium.

                "No, thanks," Matthew replied, trying to look cavalier without sacrificing gratitude. He didn't want Gilbert to think that he was a bore, but he had also forgotten his (fake) ID in his bedroom. He couldn't risk getting carded. He _always_ got carded no matter where they went. Besides, drinks were expensive, especially at nice restaurants like this, and Gilbert—cool and devil-may-care as he seemed—didn't look like he was made of money. He looked good, though. _Really_ good. Matthew couldn't believe his luck. Surely such handsome blind-dates were not the norm? _He's got the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen_ , he thought, trying to stare at him without Gilbert noticing. Matthew wanted to say something clever or interesting to counter his unimaginative drink choice and grab Gilbert's attention, but all he came up with was:

                "So, do you like fish then?"

                Gilbert was leaning forward, nearly nose-to-nose with the aquarium glass. "To eat or look at?" he asked.

                "Uh, both?"

                "No."

                "Oh," said Matthew in surprise. "Sorry, I thought..." He stopped when he saw Gilbert's sideways grin. The German was teasing him. Matthew smiled in reply.

                "So, Arthur's your cousin?" Gilbert asked conversationally. He straightened to his full height as he spoke. He was tall, someone who habitually had perfect posture.

                "Yes, technically. He's actually more like my brother," Matthew replied. "We've always been together."

                Gilbert smiled. "I have a brother, too, so I kind of get the whole overprotective big brother thing," he added.

                "What do you mean?" Matthew feigned ignorance.

                Gilbert cocked an eyebrow in a _yeah-right_ fashion. "Okay," he said sarcastically, "so Arthur's been glaring at me since you arrived because, what? He hates Germans?"

                "Well, yes," Matthew joked, "but I get what you're saying. It's not his fault though. The over-protectiveness, I mean. He's a wonderful person, really. It's just... it hasn't always been easy for us," he said ambiguously. "I think Art's just forgotten how to trust people. He assumes the worst of everyone, don't take it personally."

                "I'll try not to," said Gilbert, inclining his head with mock-cordiality.

                An awkward silence settled between them, which Matthew broke by saying:

                "That's Antonio?" He bobbed his chin toward the Spaniard. "Lovino's been talking about him for three days."

                "Oh, yeah? Toni must have really made an impression," Gilbert smirked, glancing back at them. "Then again, so did Lovino." He tapped his cheek in example.

                Matthew laughed, then quickly covered his mouth. "Oh, poor Antonio," he said in apology. "I'm so sorry. Lovino's got a bit of a temper, but he's a great guy, too—really. He's just a bit defensive before he gets to know you. But he really does care about people. He's very sweet."

                Gilbert eyed Matthew for a moment, a studious look on his pale face. "You've got something nice to say about everyone, haven't you?"

                Matthew blushed and lowered his gaze. He didn't reply.

                "Matthew," said Gilbert hesitantly. "Can I ask... how old you are?"

                "Nineteen," Matthew lied. To hide the fact, he immediately—playfully—asked: "How old are you?"

                Gilbert chuckled. "Not nineteen."

                Matthew waited for a less ambiguous reply, but received none. If he was guessing, he would have said mid-to-late twenties, though it was hard to tell. Gilbert's looks were unique. In truth, he looked ageless. _He's so handsome_ , Matthew thought. Yet, he didn't miss the way Gilbert actively avoided his reflection in the aquarium glass. He could see the reflection of the German's striking eyes, always looking away from himself. Matthew wanted to say something complementary to him, but Gilbert interrupted before he could muster the courage:

                "It looks like the storm has ebbed," he joked, indicating their fellows. "I think it's safe to return. Come on."

                Matthew followed, but before they reached the table, they were intercepted by Arthur and Lovino, who were returning from the restroom. Leaping at the opportunity to interrogate his cousin, Arthur subtly grabbed Matthew's elbow, and whispered:

                " _No appetite_?" It was an accusation. " _Why aren't you eating_?"

                " _Because it's not my money_ ," Matthew replied, feeling disgruntled. Frankly, he had been embarrassed by Arthur's blatant disregard for his date's pocketbook. But Arthur, apparently, was more disconcerted by Matthew's lack of enthusiasm. This was clear when he stopped in the middle of the dining-room, forcing Matthew to stop with him.

                "Just a moment," he said, reassuring the others. Lovino didn't even acknowledge them as he returned to his date's side. Gilbert paused, then walked on. Arthur smiled for the party's benefit, but his tone was scolding when he said: "When we return to the table, you're going to ask for a menu and place a real order. Not a side-dish, okay?"

                Matthew sighed, but he said: "I'm not going to take advantage of my date, Art, not when he's treating me to supper. It's bad enough that he got roped into a blind-date with me—and don't even deny it, because you know that Francis just dragged him along to appease you. But even so, Gilbert's been really nice to me. I don't want to ruin it."

                Arthur scoffed. "Oh please, Matthew! It's barely even a date, regardless of what the frog-eater says. You think they can't afford it?"

                "That's not the point," Matthew argued. "The point is—"

                "Hey, are you two coming?" Lovino's loud voice interrupted. He was standing awkwardly between Antonio and Gilbert and looked very small. Matthew noticed how Antonio kept a hand on Lovino, as if to remind everyone else whose date the Italian was.

                " _Eat something_!" Arthur insisted as they returned to the table.

                Matthew reclaimed his seat and ignored him. As a courtesy, the restaurant staff had pushed two tables side-by-side so that Antonio and Lovino could join the now triple-date. Lovino seemed unhappy about it, but Antonio's demeanor was cheerful. He talked—loudly—and asked Matthew lots of questions that were, perhaps, a bit too private for a public setting. Eventually, Gilbert gracelessly told him to "cut it the fuck out." Antonio merely rolled his eyes and moved on to harassing Arthur, much to Lovino and Francis' amusement. Matthew nodded gratefully to Gilbert, who smiled in reply.

* * *

**LOVINO**

Lovino was glad when the wait-staff brought their meals, because it gave him an excuse not to talk. It was impolite to speak with your mouth full (not that Gilbert had gotten that message). The night had began so wonderfully, but it had not proceeded as expected. Of course Antonio was a friend of the annoying French patron from Club 69. _Of course he fucking was_. And the fact that Matthew's date was an obnoxious potato-bastard? _Yeah_ , _super._ Besides, if Lovino had wanted to spend the night with his roommates, he would have stayed at home. He sat quietly—moodily—and avoided eye-contact with everyone, bitter about his interrupted date. Not that he actually cared about dating Antonio. It was just a free meal, and he liked to be spoiled. Though as he pushed the food around his plate, uninterested, he realized that he wasn't hungry. In fact, he still felt nauseous.

                "Are you sure you're okay?" Antonio asked quietly. Lovino looked sideways at the Spaniard's earnest face. "If you want, we can leave."

                "No, I'm fine," Lovino said. Even though it was what he desperately wanted, he didn't want to ruin Antonio's night with his friends. He smiled in reassurance, but it was stiff, and Antonio looked skeptical. Fortunately, he was saved from answering by Arthur:

                "Yes, of course we'd like the dessert menu, please!" he said to the waiter without consulting anyone else.

                Francis frowned unhappily, but nodded in consent. His expression softened when Arthur bobbed his head toward Matthew, conveying a silent plea. Matthew was talking to Gilbert, not paying attention, but Lovino understood the exchange. Matthew _loved_ sweets, even Lovino knew that, and the boy hadn't eaten anything except a small green salad and complimentary bread all night. Lovino had considered pushing his plate toward Matthew—he wasn't going to eat it—but thought it would be an insult to Antonio, who was paying for it.

                "Matthew, what are you going to have for pudding?" Arthur asked, smiling. It looked fake to Lovino.

                "Nothing," Matthew countered. "I'm fine, thanks."

                Arthur sighed in defeat. Francis said: "Gil, what about you?"

                Gilbert frowned. "Me? You know I don't like sweet things, Fran."

                "Oh, I know," Francis mused conversationally, "but this place has really great desserts. You should _definitely_ order _something_ ," he emphasized. "If you don't like it, I'm sure that _someone_ else will eat it. It'd be a shame to waste it, after all."

                The German merely blinked at him, perplexed.

                Lovino rolled his eyes. _This is just fucking painful_. Helpfully, he kicked Gilbert's shin. The German glowered at him, but Lovino's eyes shifted subtly to Matthew and back, translating the request. _There you go_ , _idiot_ , he nodded when Gilbert's face revealed understanding.

                "Oh, yeah... okay then, dessert," he said, grabbing a menu. He was a bad actor, Lovino thought. Especially when his dessert arrived—a delicious ice-cream dish—and he ate a bite of it, proclaimed it too sweet, and then offered it to Matthew. Matthew's violet gaze flitted accusingly to Arthur and back before he accepted it. _God_ , Lovino sighed in annoyance, _Matt's young_ , _but he's not stupid._ At least the teenager looked happy eating the sweet dessert. (He loved ice-cream.)

                "Hey, Lovi," said Antonio, proffering a forkful of cake, "do you want a taste? It's really good."

                No, Lovino did not want a taste. He could smell the decadent chocolate from where he was and the sweetness nearly made him gag, but the Spaniard looked so hopeful, and he was trying so hard to cheer Lovino, that he ended up saying: "Yes." The minute the chocolate touched his tongue, however, he wished he hadn't. The nausea that had been churning his stomach suddenly crept up his throat, filling his mouth with sour fluid. Lovino's eyes widened as he leapt tactlessly up, pressing a hand to his mouth.

                "Lovi—"

                Lovino ran to the restroom, ignoring the shouts that followed him. He pushed his way inside, threw open the stall door, and vomited into a pristine toilet. Once, twice, thrice. He gripped the porcelain edges as his stomach roiled, rejecting everything he had eaten within the last twenty-four hours, which mostly consisted of rank, digested sushi.

                "Lovino, are you okay?"

                Matthew's voice entered the restroom, echoing. He spotted Lovino bent over the toilet and knelt behind him. "Oh, no..." he said sheepishly, rubbing the Italian's back. "Was it the sushi? I told Art it was a bad idea, but he thought it would be fine—"

                Lovino coughed. "What about the sushi?"

                "Oh, uh... it may have been a little past its expiration date..."

                Lovino groaned and hung his head in despair. "Oh my God! You fed me _expired fish_?"

                "I'm sorry! Art said it would be fine!"

                "That's because you two have stomachs made of cast-iron! I've seen the crap you eat, it's disgusting! I've told him a thousand fucking times, I can't eat—"

                His words became a garbled growl and he vomited again.

                "Uh, Lovino?" It was Arthur. "What's wrong?"

                "I think Lovino has food-poisoning," Matthew reported.

                " _You fucking poisoned me_!" Lovino cried—literally; tears filled his eyes. " _I'm never eating anything you give me ever again_!"

                "Apparently his digestive-system is a bit... sensitive," Matthew supplied. "Someone needs to take him home."

                "I'll take him."

                Lovino tensed. _Oh_ , _no_. _Not you_. _Anyone but you. I don't want you to see me like this_ , he thought as Antonio squeezed in between he and Matthew.

                "Lovi, it's going to be okay," said Antonio's soothing voice. "You should've told me sooner you weren't feeling well, we could've postponed. Come here." His strong, warm hands landed on Lovino's shoulders and squeezed, gently guiding him. As he pulled Lovino out of the stall, he draped the Italian's coat over his shoulders. "I'll take you to my place, it's just a few blocks from here."

                "No..." Lovino choked-out, shying away. He grabbed Matthew's sleeve to prevent the boy leaving him alone with Antonio, intending to use him as a shield. He didn't want Antonio to see him like this, pale and sweaty and faint. He didn't want the kind, handsome Spaniard to see him throw-up. What if he threw-up _on_ Antonio? That would be _so_ embarrassing! "Matt," he mumbled instead. "Take me home..."

                He took a step toward Matthew, then swayed dizzily. Antonio caught him.

                "It's okay, Lovi. It's just a short walk to my place."

                Uninvited, he scooped the slender dancer effortlessly into the cradle of his arms. Lovino moaned weakly and squeezed his eyes shut. _Oh my God_ , _I feel like I'm dying_! The motion of Antonio's footsteps made him press a hand to his mouth, afraid that he would vomit. His other hand kept a firm hold of Matthew's sleeve, forcing the teenager to stumbled along behind them. Arthur had gone back to their table to inform Francis and Gilbert of the development, but he returned in time to pry Matthew free. Considerately, Antonio exited the restaurant by the back-door so that no one would see them. _No_ , _wait—don't leave me alone with him_! Lovino panicked, but nobody understood his fear. To them, he just looked sick. "Wait—!" he croaked, but a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. He pushed deliberately at Antonio and stumbled onto his hands-and-knees, gagging on the roadside. By the time he caught his breath, Arthur and Matthew were gone.

                " _Fuck_ ," he growled.

                As Antonio helped him stand, half-carrying him, Lovino made a mental-note to chuck all of his roommates' clothes out the window when he got home.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Lovino looked absolutely mortified. Arthur pitied him, he did, but he also agreed that taking him to Antonio's place was the best option. It was a lot closer to the restaurant than their flat was, and probably more comfortable. Maybe it even had medicine. Besides, there was something reassuring about Antonio's concern that quieted Arthur's doubts. The Spaniard's expression had gone from cheerful to worried when Lovino leapt up and ran to the restroom, but his bedside manner was calm and considerate. He hadn't hesitated. He hadn't shied away from Lovino's state, or asked unnecessary questions. He had simply swept Lovino into his arms and strode deliberately toward the exit, and in that moment Arthur doubted he could have stopped him even if he wanted to. Antonio was on a mission, and that mission was taking care of Lovino. Frankly, having nursed Lovino before—he was an absolute nightmare when ill—Arthur was more than happy to step aside and let Antonio have him. (He would be sure to get Antonio's address from Francis in the event of an emergency—or, if the Spaniard regretted his choice.) Besides, Francis had assured Arthur that Antonio was trustworthy, and, though Arthur didn't know Antonio, he _did_ trust Francis.

                Arthur returned to the dining-room just as Francis and Gilbert were settling the bills. (Gilbert paid Antonio and Lovino's bill, dismissing Matthew's needless apology. "I've got it, it's fine. Toni can just own me," he said. Arthur would have called Gilbert's cavalier attitude _smooth_ , if only the German realized how impressive the act was. It was a very large bill.) It was a congenial exchange with the restaurant staff. The waiter wished them a pleasant evening and packaged up the leftovers, glad to see them go, then they retrieved their coats from the coat-check. But before Arthur could follow Gilbert and Matthew out, Francis cornered him in the hallway. He did not look pleased as he proffered his bill.

                "You're paying for half of this."

                Arthur crossed his arms, the bag of leftovers hanging over his wrist. "You're going to make your date pay for his own meal? What kind of gentleman are you?"

                Francis' eye twitched. "It's five-hundred _fucking_ credits."

                "Oh, please," Arthur feigned nonchalance (though, he honestly didn't think it would be _that_ much). "Like you can't afford a little splurge, frog."

                Francis gaped at him. "Just how much money do you think I make?" he countered. "I'm a police detective, I don't shit fucking gold!"

                "Well, I don't know..." Arthur shrugged, feeling guiltier by the second. "But it's obviously enough to buy posh six-thousand-credit suits," he muttered, looking away.

                He flinched when Francis grabbed his chin and jerked his head back. He knew the Frenchman was a handsy man, but, though his touch didn't hurt Arthur, his posture revealed a whisper of aggression. Arthur tensed.

                "I don't know where you're getting your information from, _chéri_ , but it's wrong," Francis said, voice lowered for privacy. "I don't even own this suit. It belongs to the department. I work undercover. Everything I'm wearing right down to my fucking socks is borrowed. Did you actually think I was rich?" he asked incredulously. Arthur bit his lip. "I'm not rich," Francis corrected. "I play with the government's money for a living, okay? And then I go home to a one-bedroom flat across from a 24-hour Quick-Mart, which is barely an upgrade from the studio-flat I used to share with Toni."

                Arthur's lip quirked. " _Seriously_?"

                "Yes, seriously," Francis said. "I just moved out last year. Until then, we had to split the flat down the middle with a Japanese screen. It _wasn't_ ideal. I love Toni, but nobody should have to live _that_ close to their friends."

                "Well, uh... surely your department will reimburse you for tonight?" Arthur offered, trying not to laugh.

                He stopped when Francis took a deliberate step forward, closing the gap between them and forcing Arthur's back against the wall. It may have been a borrowed suit, but _damn_! Francis looked good in it. Arthur could feel lithe muscles pressed tauntingly against him through the fabric as the Frenchman leant forward. It stirred an unexpected yet familiar yearning in his lower-body, the kind of discomfort no amount of self-ministration—or inept actors—could satisfy. When Francis spoke, the faint note of challenge in his husky voice made Arthur hunger for more:

                "No. The department _won't_ reimburse me."

                Arthur swallowed. "Why not?"

                "Because I didn't get permission to take you out tonight. As far as the department is concerned, this is just a personal affair. It's got nothing to do with the investigation."

                "Then... why did you choose such an expensive restaurant?" Arthur countered, trying to inject as much scorn as possible, but Francis' proximity prevented it. He felt hot and bothered and couldn't help staring at Francis' lips, so close to his. "Why this place?"

                "Because I was trying to impress you!" said Francis, as if it was obvious.

                "Oh, I see... Well, uh... if it's any consolation, it worked _very_ well."

                "Too well, I think," said Francis grudgingly.

                An awkward silence stretched between them for a moment too long, then Arthur broke it by uttering a small:

                "I'm sorry."

                Francis sighed; Arthur felt it. "It's okay," he said, stepping back. "Just..." he cocked his curly head and those velvety lips reluctantly smiled, "stop spending my money, okay, _chéri_?"

                Arthur nodded.

                Francis began to walk away, but Arthur impulsively grabbed his arm. "Hey, listen," he said hesitantly, feeling a little desperate. "I can't pay you back... with money, but I _can_ pay you back." He eyed the Frenchman suggestively.

                Francis' lips curled into a receptive grin. "Oh? Well, I can't say I'm not tempted," he said, shamelessly letting his eyes roam Arthur's unfashionably clad figure from head-to-toe, "but I don't trade sex for favours. Not ever. Don't worry about it," he said, gently uncoiling Arthur's hand. "Despite the bill," he frowned, "I don't regret asking you out tonight. You don't owe me anything, Arthur. It's not like this was a real date anyway."

                "What if I want it to be?" Arthur blurted.

                Maybe it was the heady red wine, or the romance of twilight. Maybe it was the memory of the Frenchman's talented hands, and the promise of his body. Maybe it was the fathomless blue of his beautiful eyes. Or maybe it was because Arthur hadn't had a good fuck in months. Whatever the reason, the flushed Englishman reached out brazenly and hooked a finger into the waist of Francis' dark trousers, drawing him closer.

                "What if we pretend that this _is_ a real date?" he asked seductively.

                Francis placed a hand on Arthur's slight hip. "Are you sure? If we do this," he teased, his voice lowered, "you run the risk of falling desperately in love with me."

                Arthur's look was doubtful. "It's just a shag. I'll take my chances." He leant forward and let his lips brush the Frenchman's softly. "Take me home, frog."

                They were halfway to the doors when Arthur suddenly remembered: "Oh, Matthew!" But Francis dismissed his concern.

                "Don't worry," he purred, his arm wrapped intimately around Arthur's waist, "Mathieu is safe. He's with Gil."

                "Gil—?" Arthur repeated skeptically.

                Francis chuckled. "Don't worry," he repeated, nipping Arthur's neck. Arthur swallowed a groan. "Gil's not a scoundrel, I promise. No matter what he looks like. The truth is," he admitted as they stepped into the cold night, "the only one of us who actually _can_ afford this kind of extravagance is Gil. His family's loaded. He lives on the upper-west side—big house with security cameras and dogs that eat better than I do. Trust me, Mathieu will be just fine."

* * *

**GILBERT**

Gilbert's cell-phone vibrated, indicating a call. Francis' name appeared on the screen. "Fran?" he answered, confused by the call. "Where the fuck are you?"

                " _In a cab heading to my place_ ," Francis replied. He sounded out of breath. " _Change of plans_ , _Gil_. _I need you to make sure Mathieu gets home safely_ , _okay_? _Thanks_!"

                "Wait, Fran, no don't—! _Fuck_ ," he sighed, shoving the cell-phone into his pocket. He looked over at Matthew, who was patiently enjoying the picturesque view of the harbour. The lights bathed him in a soft silvery glow, making him look young and fragile and beautiful.

                _I hate you so much_ , _Fran_.

                "Hey!" he called, more gruffly than he meant to. Matthew flinched. "So, uh... Fran and Arthur aren't coming back with us."

                "Ah," said Matthew knowledgably.

                "I'm going to take you home, okay?"

                "Oh, sure. But you really don't have to," Matthew insisted. "I mean, if it's out of your way, I can just take the metro, it's fine—"

                "Matthew," Gilbert interrupted, "get in the car."

                "O-okay. Uh... which car?"

                "The one we're standing in front of."

                "Oh." Matthew blushed. ( _He's so fucking cute._ ) Then realization hit the boy. "Wait," he said in disbelief, "this is _your_ car?"

                "Yeah, why?"

                "Oh, no, nothing, it's just... I just didn't expect you to... It's _really_ nice," Matthew corrected, gaping in blatant appreciation.

                "Thank-you," Gilbert grinned in self-satisfaction. He tried to look nonchalant, but he loved the compliments his car provoked. "My brother and I rebuilt her when we were in high-school... and _may_ have made a few adjustments to her original design," he said as he circled around Matthew. Politely, he opened the passenger-side door. "She's a '58 Mercedes-Benz 300 SL—What?"

                "Oh, no, nothing," Matthew shook his head, failing to hide his amusement. "I like Mercedes."

                "Yeah, me too..." Gilbert said, not entirely sure he understood the joke. He shrugged and ushered the boy inside. "After you, _schatzi_."

                He was feeling confident—he liked showing-off—but his arrogance died a swift death when Matthew looked back at him from the passenger-seat and smiled.

                "Thanks," he said.

                Suddenly, Gilbert felt all warm and fuzzy inside.

                _I'm going to kill you_ , _Fran._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know shit-all about cars. Just go with it. =_=


	5. Four

**LOVINO**

Antonio had a lovely washroom. Lovino had had lots of time to determine this, since he had been confined to it for the better part of an hour. He guessed that the rest of the flat, though small, was equally as nice, but he had not stopped to ogle the wall-sconces when he had entered. Abandoning his pride, he had groaned the word, " _toilet_ —?" and been led to the porcelain haven of Antonio's lavatory. At this point, he had had lots of time to survey the small space, and lots of time to read every label on every bottle, tube, and dish cluttering the countertop, and had deduced that, though the Spaniard used several products to enhance his good-looks, those dark, glossy waves were entirely natural.

                "Lovi—?" said the devil, himself. "Are you okay, _cariño_?"

                "Fine," Lovino barked, wishing the washroom door had a lock. As it didn't, Antonio pushed it opened a crack and peeked inside. "I said I'm fine," Lovino repeated, a little annoyed and a lot embarrassed. He had undressed to his trousers and a sleeveless white t-shirt, which was damp with sweat. His hair was lying lankly across his forehead and his pallor was a sickly olive that was not his natural colour. His lips were parched, his eyelids were heavy, and he had never felt more repulsive in his entire life. Not even covered in bruises had he felt so ugly. "Just go away," he said to Antonio, refusing to look at the Spaniard. But he could see the man's reflection in the mirror.

                "I brought you a change of clothes," he said, smiling like a puppy-dog whose master was sad. It was such an earnest smile, it made Lovino misty-eyed, which in turn made him feel pathetic.

                "Thanks," he mumbled from his place on the tiled floor.

                In retrospect, he should have accepted the clothes by hand. His failure to do so invited Antonio inside. He placed the clothes—a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms—on the counter, then knelt apprehensively at Lovino's side. Lovino was grateful for Antonio's generosity, and _really_ grateful that his flat was so close to the restaurant, but he wished the Spaniard would leave him alone. Lovino had already taken medicine. Antonio's medicine cabinet was better stocked than any street pharmacy the Italian had ever encountered, which had made him momentarily anxious. The last thing he wanted was to get romantically involved with another addict. He briefly wondered what in hell Antonio needed so many drugs for, but his curiosity was short-lived as nausea overwhelmed him. Now, all he could do was wait for the medicine to take effect and settle his empty stomach.

                He flinched suddenly when Antonio's knuckles gently brushed his cheek. He hadn't realized that he had been dozing, half-asleep where he sat.

                "You're a bit flushed, but you look cold. Are you cold?" Antonio asked.

                Lovino made a noncommittal noise. At first the tiled floor had felt good as he sweat and vomited, but now he shivered.

                "Are you tired?"

                _I feel fucking dead_ , he thought. He said: "Yeah."

                "Get changed," Antonio ordered. Then he left the washroom.

                Lovino hesitated, his stubbornness making a brief re-appearance before he grabbed Antonio's clothes from the countertop. The fabric was lightweight and soft in the way old, well-laundered clothes were. They smelled like the Spaniard, too; a bit like his aftershave. Lovino pulled the t-shirt on overhead, closed his eyes, and indulged in a deep whiff. A moment later, a knock sounded on the door.

                "Lovi—? Are you decent?"

                Lovino frowned. _I dance at a fucking strip-club and he's worried about walking in on me naked in his own house_? _He's so fucking weird._ "Yeah," he said, pushing open the door. A begrudging " _thank-you_ " followed, indicating the clothes.

                Antonio smiled.

                "I, uh... think I'm okay now," he said, avoiding the Spaniard's puppy-dog gaze. "But I left my cell at home." It was useless anyway. He was overdue on a couple of payments and the provider had cancelled his service—not that he would tell Antonio that. "Do you have a phone I can use?"

                "What for?"

                "To call a cab—"

                "No," Antonio interrupted.

                "No, you don't have a phone—?" Lovino puzzled.

                "Not for a cab," Antonio clarified. "It's late. And cab-fare is expensive. And what if you get halfway home and feel carsick again? And... I don't mind having you here. You should..." his voice softened, "stay."

                Lovino couldn't help it, he looked up at the Spaniard. His chest tightened and for a second he thought he was going to be sick again. Then he realized his heart had leapt into his throat and the unsettling sensation was affection. Antonio didn't look repulsed or inconvenienced by Lovino's repugnant state. His smile looked genuine.

                "You don't seriously think you're getting lucky tonight, do you?" he asked snidely, trying to maintain a casual distance—physically _and_ emotionally.

                Antonio laughed. "No," he acknowledged, then winked. "But let me know if you change your mind, _cariño_."

                "God, you're weird," Lovino criticised, marching off.

                He marched about five steps before he was forced to stop and acknowledge that he didn't actually know the flat's layout. His eyes automatically spotted a couch, but Antonio opened an adjacent door.

                "Bedroom," he said, bowing Lovino inside.

                Lovino narrowed his eyes.

                "What?" Antonio grinned. "You want my hands tied behind my back?" he mimed.

                Lovino smirked. "Is that an option?"

                Before Antonio could reply, a yawn forced it's way past Lovino's lips. He covered his mouth, but couldn't stop the little sigh of exhaustion that followed.

                "Go on," Antonio said, gently pushing Lovino into the bedroom. "Go to sleep, Lovi. I'll stay out here."

                For a split-second, Lovino wanted to protest. He wanted Antonio to accompany him to bed, if only to feel less vulnerable in an unfamiliar space. But he thought better of inviting the Spaniard into his own bed and merely stepped into the windowless room. He did, however, catch the doorframe before Antonio could close it.

                "Leave it open, okay? I don't want to grope around in the dark if I need to get sick again," he argued, though the truth was less practical.

                _I don't want to feel alone tonight._ At least with the door hanging ajar, he would have a clear slight-line of the living-room couch.

                "Sure," said Antonio, smiling kindly. "Let me know if you need anything. Goodnight, Lovi."

                Lovino was glad for the dark. It hid his blush. "Goodnight, Green Eyes."

* * *

**GILBERT**

Gilbert watched Matthew out of the corner of his eye as he drove downtown, one-handed. Being left-handed, Gilbert usually steered with his dominant hand, but that would have placed his right hand awkwardly close to the passenger's seat, so instead he drove with his right and let his left hang out the open window. "Choose a radio station if you want," he said to Matthew, hoping he would. He couldn't stand the silence, but he didn't know what to say to the quiet boy. Gilbert wasn't a conversationalist. Most nights, he worked alone. As Matthew played with the radio dials, he mentally mapped-out the fastest route back to the bartender's flat. The sooner he dropped Matthew off, the sooner he could start planning revenge on Francis.

                _Why did you leave me alone with him_ , _Fran_? Without Francis' guidance, he was afraid he would fuck it up. How long had it been since his last date? And had it been with a man or a woman? _Fuck_ , _I can't even remember._ All he remembered was that it hadn't outlasted his short attention-span and neither party had called the next day.

                "Oh, stop!" he blurted suddenly. "Go back—that one. This is a great song."

                Matthew turned the volume up, then sat back to listen. His eyes roamed the car's interior, absently bobbing his curly head to the music. He slid his hand over the door, his fingers tracing the details. The city lights flashed by, illuminating his pale face in a fractured glow. He looked very content, a lot more relaxed now than he had been in the restaurant, as if he was enjoying something a lot more thrilling than a simple car-ride. Again, his violet eyes landed on the smooth dashboard, where a silver insignia was engraved.

                "Hey," Gilbert said, struck by a thought, "do you want to drive?"

                Matthew's violet eyes lit up. "I'd love to, but..." Sheepishly, he looked down. "I don't have a driver's licence."

                "No—?"

                Gilbert considered the intersection he was stopped at. To the left was Matthew's flat; to the right was the city limits and a long stretch of empty highway. He looked sideways at the boy, his date, who finally seemed to be enjoying the night. And he turned right.

                "Where are we going?" Matthew asked a little nervously.

                Instead of answering, Gilbert pulled over on the side of the highway and got out of the car. "Go on," he said, opening the passenger-side door. "Switch with me."

                Matthew looked up at him in disbelief. "But I—I can't drive," he worried. "I mean... what if I hit something?"

                Dramatically, Gilbert twisted from left-to-right, pretending to survey the empty landscape, not another car in sight. "I think you'll be okay."

                "But I don't even have a learner's permit yet—" Matthew argued as Gilbert took the liberty of unbuckling his seatbelt and pulling him out.

                "Matt," he interrupted, "do you want to drive, or not?"

                Matthew hesitated, then looked shyly up at Gilbert. "I want to drive," he smiled.

                "Go on then. I'll teach you."

                "What if the police catch us?"

                "Don't even worry about it," he replied, hiding a chuckle at the irony. "I've got a good reputation with the city police."

                They got back into the car, Matthew in the driver's seat, Gilbert in the passenger's seat. Overeager, the boy ran his hands over the indented leather steering-wheel and gingerly tapped the gas pedal.

                "Hold on." Gilbert leant over Matthew and grabbed the boy's seatbelt. "Safety first," he teased. "Now, check your mirrors. Good. Brace the clutch—there, on the floor. And put her in gear, like this," he demonstrated, grabbing Matthew's hand. "Can you feel it shift?" he asked, holding Matthew's hand over the joystick as he moved it from one gear to the next in practise.

                "Yeah, I can," Matthew replied. He was giddy with nervous excitement.

                Slowly, the car eased back onto the road. "A little more gas," Gilbert advised. He left his hand on Matthew's and helped him shift, ordering "clutch" every time (even so, they stalled out twice before Matthew managed to get it). The boy's face relaxed into a bright smile as the engine purred, propelling the car down the highway. Gilbert couldn't help staring at him. He knew he should be watching the road, but the boy's childish excitement was infectious. "A bit faster, that's good. Now, clutch. Don't clench the wheel, don't jerk it. Hold it lightly." The commands came naturally to Gilbert, like falling back into a routine. He remembered teaching Ludwig and Antonio how to drive, and Matthew was much more receptive and patient than either of them had been (a bit timid, too). "Are you afraid of the gas-pedal?" he teased. "Come on, _schatzi_ , give her a push. There you go," he praised as the car purred in happy acceleration. Matt's eyes glowed in the light of the dashboard, a smile on his face.

                "Take a left up here," Gilbert said after a while. "Slow down and ease her into the turn— _a little slower_. Go in tight and out wide. Good, that's really good," he praised. Matthew smiled proudly, but he kept his eyes on the road. He was focused. He never took his eyes off of the road, and Gilbert barely took his eyes off of him. It was late when Gilbert finally ended the lesson.

                "That was so much fun!" Matthew laughed, leaping out. "I've never driven _anything_ before!"

                "A couple more lessons and you'll be ready for your driving exam," Gilbert overstated. He ruffled Matthew's curls and then wished he hadn't. This was a date, after all. He had forgotten this was a date.

                "I've actually never been out here before," Matthew said, unperturbed. They were parked in the lot of a small strip-mall on the outskirts of the next town over. The terrain was rugged here, and covered in dense evergreen forests as far as could be seen. "I didn't know we lived so close to something so beautiful," he said, admiring the wilderness.

                "There's a hiking trail up there," Gilbert pointed. "And—" he swivelled, "—an observation point over there."

                "Really? I bet the view is—" Matthew stopped as his stomach suddenly gave a loud, angry growl. He blushed.

                "Hungry?" asked Gilbert.

                "No, I just—"

                "Get in."

                They climbed back into the car and Gilbert pulled into the drive-thru of a fast-food diner. "What do you want to eat?" he asked.

                "Really, it's okay. I'm not—"

                "If you don't tell me, I'm going to order for you," Gilbert threatened.

                Matthew sighed. "A cheeseburger—?"

                "Are you asking me, or telling me?"

                "Uh, telling you—?"

                Gilbert chuckled. "You really suck at this," he smiled. "A cheeseburger, okay. Just one?"

                Matthew's stomach growled again. "Maybe two. And fries. And a milkshake."

                By the time Gilbert was finished ordering, they had six cheeseburgers, two cartons of fries, a milkshake, and a diet cola between them.

                Gilbert smirked. "Not much of an appetite, huh?"

* * *

**ARTHUR**

_Oh_ , _mm... uh_ , _o-oh yes... yes..._ "

                Arthur bit his bottom lip, but he couldn't silence the cascade of breathy encouragement that poured from his mouth. His voice was soft and laboured. He took fast, shallow breaths as his body rocked back-and-forth, his back arched, lying sprawled on Francis' mattress. The Frenchman was bent over Arthur's lower-body—Arthur could barely see the top of his head from this angle. He squeezed a fistful of Francis' silky hair, pulling and pushing him as his hips involuntarily bucked. His legs were flung over the Frenchman's shoulders, and he inadvertently dug his heels into Francis' back. _Fran—nn_ , _uh... yea... a-ah..._ _ah_..." Arthur let his head fall back, eyes closed as a wave of climax crashed through him. At the last moment he jolted forward, cupping the back of Francis' head urgently. " _AH_!"

                " _Oh_ , _God_ ," he whispered in recovery. The strength went out of him and he fell back. " _Oh_ , _blimey O'Reilly's fucking trousers_."

                "In French," said Francis, leaning over him, "we just say _thank-you_."

                Arthur opened his eyes. Francis deliberately—slowly—licked semen from his lips.

                "I'm not going to thank you for blowing me. Or shagging me," he added as Francis crawled eagerly forward.

                "I didn't think you would," Francis mused seductively. His eyes looked strikingly blue in the moonlight. His hands slid teasingly from Arthur's thighs to his taut backside and cupped it. He turned his head and brushed his teeth against Arthur's leg, still wrapped around his neck. The Englishman's heart skipped a beat when Francis pressed his parted lips tenderly to the sensitive skin of his upper-thigh. "I guess I'll just have to try _harder_ ," he purred, his voice a breathless whisper. He pushed his erect cock into the heat of Arthur's wet entrance in one smooth, expert motion. Arthur produced a soft noise—half gasp, half sigh—in reply. He reached behind himself and grabbed handfuls of bed-sheets in excited anticipation. He could already feel his body tensing again in desire. He opened his mouth and closed his eyes and felt Francis' hot breath as the Frenchman began to move inside of him:

                " _I love a challenge_ ," he whispered.

* * *

**LOVINO**

Lovino felt his lover's rough hands coil around his slight waist, then slide up, cupping his pectorals. He shivered at the intimate touch and leant back against the man's warm chest. He felt the man's hot lips kiss his neck, suck his neck—bite his neck. Lovino flinched, but he didn't protest. He felt the man's naked body shift, felt the slide of his erect cock against his thigh as his lover crawled on top of him, pinning the boy against the mattress. Lovino stared up at him and instinctively tensed. The man's dark eyes were wide and unblinking, the pupils dilated. Lovino swallowed. He touched his lover's forearm, and anxiously said: " _Wait_ —"

                The man's fist struck him hard.

* * *

Lovino bolted upright, gasping. He pressed a hand to his mouth as he struggled out of a tangle of bed-sheets and ran to the washroom, disoriented. He fell to his knees and dry-heaved until the panic ebbed and he was too exhausted to continue. He sat on the tiled floor shivering, trying to get the mental-image of his ex-boyfriend out of his head. _Oh_ , _no. No_ , _no_ , _no_ , _go away_! He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples. _Go away_!

                Eventually, he picked himself up off the floor, splashed a few handfuls of cold water on his face, and left the porcelain sanctuary. He was passing by the living-room when he spotted Antonio's languid figure sprawled over the couch, his arms flung carelessly overhead, his legs stretched out, his mouth hanging slightly open. A crocheted throw lay bunched on the floor, kicked-off sometime in the night, leaving Antonio's naked torso on display. Lovino's hazel eyes stared shamelessly at the shadowed contours and cords of relaxed muscle in the Spaniard's fit body. He was so handsome. But Lovino's ex had been handsome too, and he was afraid he had seen smiles like Antonio's before: too happy, too carefree, too eager. Maybe he was just being paranoid, but he felt like he knew what kind of secrets those disarming smiles hid.

                _Clearly I have a type_ , he thought ruefully. He slipped his fingers below the waistband of the pyjama bottoms he wore and felt the scar cut low into his hip, and as he did he remembered what happened when those sweet smiles turned sour. He closed his eyes and swallowed.

                _I can't do this. Not again._

                And yet... he suddenly wanted to touch Antonio. Antonio, who at that moment looked so defenceless, and so beautiful. _I'd love to paint him_ , Lovino thought as he tip-toed slowly toward the couch, staring openly at the Spaniard. His fingers hovered over Antonio's warm, ochre skin.

                The Spaniard mumbled incoherently in his sleep, his thick eyelashes fluttering. A peaceful smile curled his parted lips. They looked so soft—so kissable.

                Lovino pulled back.

                He stepped back, retreating fast.

                He closed the bedroom door behind him.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Matthew sucked French fry salt off his fingertips, savouring the grainy texture that melted deliciously on his tongue. He tilted his head and licked his pinky. Then he saw Gilbert watching him and stopped. He smiled coyly and blushed. So did Gilbert. They both quickly diverted their gaze.

                "This is really beautiful," Matthew said, avoiding eye-contact; drawing attention to the view instead.

                They were leaning back against the windshield sitting on the hood of the car, parked at the observation point that Gilbert had described earlier. The night sky was crowded with shining stars and the valley stretched out far below them, moonlight reflecting off the river. He could see the black ribbon of highway cutting through the flat landscape. It was late, but Matthew didn't care. He was used to working late nights. Even though the evening had begun shakily—he had been apprehensive about the double-date turned triple—as soon as they left the crowded restaurant he had relaxed considerably, and now he was in no hurry for the night to end. He liked Gilbert's company. It was a lot easier to talk to him one-on-one.

                When Gilbert had produced a sleeping-bag from the car, Matthew had raised a teasing eyebrow. "Well, aren't you prepared. Just how many guys to do you bring up here?"

                Gilbert's pale face had blushed as he hurried to explain: "No, none—! I mean, just you. But not for the reason you're thinking! I just—ah, fuck," he gave up when Matthew laughed. "It's not like that. I just always keep a blanket in the car."

                "Why?"

                "When I was a kid," Gilbert said, laying the sleeping-bag over the hood, "my Vater and younger brother and I were out driving and the car broke down. It was winter, really cold. I was nine, Ludwig—my brother—was seven. Vater left to get help and told us to stay put. I guess he figured he could go faster if he didn't have to tote us two kids along. I don't think he planned on being very long. We had winter coats on, but to this day it's the coldest I've ever been." He shivered at the memory. "So now," he concluded simply, "I always keep a blanket in the car, just in case."

                Matthew leant back into the plush sleeping-bag, now. The night was cold, but he was dressed in layers so he didn't mind it. In fact, the bite of clean air felt good. Gilbert didn't seem to mind it either. He was a fairly big man and produced a lot of body-heat; Matthew could feel it. They lay almost shoulder-to-shoulder on the hood. The air smelled of crisp pine-needles and greasy take-away wrappers. When a gust of wind ruffled Matthew's curls and he shivered, Gilbert chivalrously offered him his jacket. Matthew didn't need it, but he accepted anyway and sunk into the embrace of soft, weathered leather. It felt good.

                "I'm glad you like it," Gilbert said, staring out across the valley. "It kind of reminds me of home. Germany," he clarified. "My family is from Berlin, but we have a house in the countryside. It's where my brother and cousins and I spent our summers growing-up."

                "That sounds nice. I've always wanted a cottage in the middle of nowhere," Matthew confessed. "Somewhere to disappear to, you know?"

                Gilbert nodded. "My family's house," he said, shifting to face Matthew, "sits on a cliff that overlooks the lake. We loved the lake. I can still remember the year Mick—my cousin—taught us all how to swim. Or, tried to. I caught on quick," he grinned proudly, "but Ludwig was too afraid to leave the shoreline. We practically had to drag him out. I had to hold his hand that whole summer or else he refused to swim with us," he chuckled, eyes twinkling fondly at the memory. Gilbert's smile was easy and honest; Matthew liked it a lot.

                "One summer," Gilbert said, "we decided to prove how tough we were by jumping off the cliff into the water. So it's me and Ludwig and my two cousins, Mick and Lars. I'm ten, Mick is twelve, and Lud and Lars are both eight. And we're all fucking terrified." Gilbert grinned wider. "Our knees are knocking as we're standing there looking over the edge, but none of us wants to admit that he's scared. So, we're all badgering each other and insulting each other. They're all calling me a coward and I'm calling them worse, and then I finally just go for it. I take a running leap and shout at the top of my lungs: _Geronimo_!"

                Matthew chuckled. "Seriously?"

                "Yeah. The next thing I know, I'm flying," Gilbert mimed. "Like, actually fucking flying toward the water with no way to stop. I hit it with an almighty _smack_!" He slapped his hands loudly together. "And I swear I passed out for a second. But I surface and I'm okay, and then all I can hear is my brother's voice screaming: _Gil's dead_! So, he and my cousins go running back to the house to get my Vater, and by the time I reach the shore Vater is running toward me, and—oh, man—I wish I _had_ died. My Vater is a really scary guy. You do _not_ want to see him angry, and holy fuck was he angry. He yelled at me for a solid hour once he realized I was okay. He yelled about pride and safety and setting a better example for my brother, blah, blah, blah... Fuck, you'd think I'd just murdered someone." He rolled his bright eyes. "Anyway, I _finally_ return to the house where Lud and the others are waiting for me, and I just can't help it: I'm grinning like a fool, because I jumped and they didn't. I mean, they all got supper that night and I didn't, but still... It was worth it just to see the looks on their faces!"

                Matthew was laughing by then. Gilbert's face and his voice were so expressive when he talked—storytelling—especially when the topic was something he obviously cared about, like his family.

                "Okay, it's your turn," Gilbert grinned playfully. Gently, he nudged Matthew. "Tell me one of your stories."

                Matthew thought for a minute before deciding on a story to tell. "Okay, when Art and I were younger," he began cautiously, "we made a pact. I don't remember why we made it in the first place, but we both solemnly swore to aid or accompany the other whenever the pact was invoked. It could be anything, any errand or adventure the other didn't want to do alone."

                "Oh, man," Gilbert laughed. "My family and I would've totally abused each other with a pact like that."

                Matthew shrugged. "Art and I have always had an unspoken understanding," he explained. "It's always just been us, so we've always taken care of each other.

                "Anyway," he continued, "after my mother died"—brief pause—"the pact took on new meaning without either of us realizing it. It started to mean _I'll stand by you no matter what._ Art and I started getting into a lot of trouble, but we never got caught. We were just desperate and stupid. So stupid. One day we ended up in a department store. It was in the middle of the day and we...." He shook his head. "We didn't look like we belonged. I was really young and really stupid and..."

                "What?" Gilbert urged.

                Matthew bit his lip. "If I tell you, you won't report me to the police, right?"

                "Well, that depends on what you did," Gilbert teased. (Matthew _hoped_ he was teasing.)

                "Nothing dire," he said. "Nothing even clever. I'd seen Art shoplift before. I'd seen how swiftly he did it, like a magician. It was never anything too big or expensive. And never anything with an anti-theft device on it."

                Gilbert snorted. "Oh fuck, you didn't."

                "I did," Matthew admitted, covering his face in shame.

                "As soon as we stepped out of the shop the alarm started blaring and Art knew exactly what I'd done. But he didn't say anything, and he didn't stop to scold me or apologize. He just grabbed my hand and we bolted down the corridor. The store security chased us from one end of the building to the other, shouting at us the whole way. Then, on the seventh floor, Art ducked out through an emergency exit—causing more alarms to sound—and pulled me out onto the fire-escape. We made it all the way to the second-level before the ladder got stuck and we both panicked. But I didn't even stop to think. I was so scared that I started easing myself down, thinking I would just jump, never-mind that we were twenty feet up. But before I could let go, Art grabbed my arms. So then he was yelling at me and the guards were yelling and cursing at us both and I was just hanging there, begging Art to let go. Then one of the guards tried to grab at Art and Art got spooked and lost his balance. I fell straight down and he came tumbling head-first after me, shrieking like mad. Thank God there was four feet of snow on the ground, because we hit it hard. I was so afraid that Art had broken his neck, because for a minute he just laid there moaning, but by some miracle we were both okay. We got up and ran for it, leaving the guards screaming at us from the fire-escape."

                Gilbert shook his head, chuckling. "Okay, I've got ask: What did you steal?"

                Matthew felt his face heat in embarrassment. "Ice-skates."

                The German barked in laughter, half-shocked, half-impressed. "You ran through the store and climbed down the fire-escape with a pair of fucking _ice-skates_ flung over your shoulder?"

                Matthew shrugged. "My coat was big enough. I didn't think anyone would notice. I told you—stupid. But the heart wants what the heart wants," he joked.

                " _Fire-escape_ has since then become our _safe word_ ," he added, making air-quotes. "It basically means there's no other way out but to risk bodily injury. Though, it's become more of a dating joke lately."

                "So, I should count myself fortunate then?" asked Gilbert, grinning. "At least you didn't risk bodily injury to escape us tonight."

                "Not yet," Matthew teased. "But Art _did_ go home with Francis."

                Gilbert pretended to consult his wristwatch. (It was an expensive custom-fit. The kind Art would have tried to pickpocket in his youth.) "Yes, he did. About three hours ago. What are the odds he's hanging from the fire-escape right now?"

                It was very late—or very early—when Gilbert finally parked his car in front of Matthew's flat and walked him to the door, ignoring the boy's dismissal: "It's okay, you really don't have to walk me..." Matthew was secretly flattered by the German's blatant insubordination. He had never had a date walk him to the door before. Not out of politeness, anyway. In fact, he couldn't recall a more considerate date than Gilbert Beilschmidt. _He's nothing like the other guys I've dated._ Gilbert's confidence was a telling sign; Matthew liked it, thinking it the German's most attractive feature. It wasn't the forced bravado of a coward, or the showy self-obsession of a playboy. It was just honest. There was nothing polished or noticeably refined about the German, and yet Matthew had never met a man with more self-respect, and he felt flattered that Gilbert regarded him with the same degree of consideration. As he ascended the building's front steps, Matthew intentionally lingered, hoping that this late-night goodbye would not be their last.

                _I want to see him again. If he's even interested_ , he thought self-consciously. _It_ was _a forced blind-date_ , _after all. He was just doing a favour for a friend_.

                Then again, it _was_ after three o'clock am. _He could've brought me straight back after supper_ , _but he didn't._

                "Thank-you for tonight, Gilbert," he said at the front door. "I honestly can't remember the last time I laughed so much."

                "Me neither," Gilbert replied. "And you're welcome. I'm glad you had a good time, and... maybe..." He rolled his shoulders, adopting a posture so casual it betrayed his unease. A hint that that confidence was not impenetrable. Matthew's stomach fluttered; he waited patiently. "Maybe we could, uh... go for another driving lesson sometime—?"

                "Oh, well I don't know," Matthew teased, tapping his cheek thoughtfully. "I think I might be busy _sometime_."

                Gilbert shook his head. "Cheeky brat," he grinned. "Tomorrow too soon? Good. I'll pick you up at one o'clock. Here, this my phone number."

                Matthew smiled. "Okay. Oh, your jacket..." He had forgotten that he was wearing it. He started to strip it off, but Gilbert raised a hand in dismissal.

                "I'll get it tomorrow," he said, slipping the cell-phone number into the jacket's pocket.

                Matthew nodded and coyly hugged the soft garment close, waiting for Gilbert to move—waiting for Gilbert to _make_ a move. When the German merely stood there, oblivious, he lifted his violet eyes to briefly meet Gilbert's reds, then let his gaze fall suggestively to his lips.

                _Come on_ , _Gil. Are you going to kiss me_ , _or not_?

                "So, uh... goodnight then, Matt," said Gilbert awkwardly, thrusting his hand out formerly in farewell.

                Matthew blinked in surprise, then swallowed a bubble of laughter. _What an idiot_ , he thought. Graciously, he accepted Gilbert's hand, then leant up and kissed the German's cheek.

                 "Goodnight, Gil."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Arthur's legs, slick with sweat and semen and saliva, flopped weakly onto the mattress. As Francis crawled to the head of the bed, Arthur noticed two things:

                One, that it was after three o'clock in the morning.

                And two, despite Francis' teasing and arrogant attitude, the Frenchman was completely, utterly exhausted.

                In retrospect, Arthur could admit that _maybe_ he had been a little more, uh... rambunctious, a little more... eager and, uh... desperate than he had originally thought. Maybe his appetite had been a little more insatiable than it would usually be. Honestly all he had intended was a good fuck—a quick no-strings-attached one-night-stand—but as soon as Francis' door had closed behind them, Arthur's desire had taken over. He hadn't wasted any time undressing the Frenchman _and_ himself like a horny teenager. It hadn't been sweet or seductive or charming or tender—it was just desperate. Over and over and over again. "You do realize that I _am_ fucking you, right?" Francis had asked after their second go, when Arthur had insisted he do exactly that the entire time. (" _Ah_ , _fuck me_! _Fuck me_ , _yes_! _Fuck me_!") The third time, Francis had fucked him from behind and Arthur's cries had been muffled in a pillow. _Maybe that was by design_? he considered now. _I can't believe I did that. I acted like a bloody sex-starved teenager_. Even so, Francis kept up. He didn't just obey Arthur's insatiable demands: he fucked him from top to bottom, back to front. He sated every single one of Arthur's desires and truly made the actor feel things he had never felt before.

                "Okay," he admitted, gasping, heart palpitating. He looked at Francis lying beside him. "You're not bad, frog. In fact, you're pretty good. _God_ , _you're fucking good._ "

                Francis barely managed a breathless chuckle. He looked at Arthur through heavy-lidded eyes. "I know," he said. He shifted and wrapped his arms around Arthur like a body-pillow. "You're pretty good yourself, _chéri_. That's... some endurance you've got," he added, baffled.

                A hiccup of laughter escaped Arthur. "Yes, well... call it an occupational necessity. Hey," he continued when the Frenchman didn't reply. "I should go. I need to get home. Let me up," he clarified, trying to escape Francis' dead-weight embrace.

                The Frenchman mumbled in sleepy denial. He buried his head between Arthur's shoulder-blades and sighed in contentment.

                Arthur frowned. "Did you hear me? I need to go. Let me go. Francis..." he sighed. "What are you doing?"

                " _Falling asleep_..."

                Arthur considered his position—literally. It was after three o'clock in the morning and he was uptown, an expensive cab-drive from his flat. He was in a _very_ nice flat in a _very_ nice bed with a _very_ nice-looking man sprawled next to him. (Was there a chance at morning sex if he stayed?) Lovino was at Antonio's, and Francis had assured him that Gilbert would see Matthew safely home. In fact, Matthew was probably sound-asleep in bed. If Arthur returned now, it would only disturb him. Besides, he didn't want to waste time travelling back downtown knowing that he had to work late tomorrow, he would rather sleep-in.

                _Ah_ , _sod it_ , he decided.

                He snuggled down into the inviting softness of the plush comforter, the pillows, and the warmth of Francis' arms. The Frenchman's figure was long and graceful in a masculine way that was not overbearing. His lovely anatomy whispered a subtle strength and skill that Arthur's colleagues usually lacked. They were too brazen. Too secretly self-conscious to show real confidence. Arthur liked that he didn't feel small or weak or insignificant in Francis' arms, like he did at work, nor did he feel like he was being objectified for someone else's enjoyment. As his body relaxed against the contours of his bedmate, he could feel the Frenchman's hair gently kiss his freckled skin; he could hear his soft breaths, rhythmic in sleep; he could smell the faint crispness of aftershave beneath the saturation of post-sex. And he felt safe.

                For the first time in ages, Arthur Kirkland closed his eyes knowing that nothing bad would happen to him.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Matthew was feeling giddy as he slipped into the flat, noticing too late that the door was unlocked. More accurately, it was broken. The door had been kicked-in.

                "Hello, Matvey."

                A quick hand grabbed a chunk of his curls and yanked, forcing his head back. His body went rigid. A tall man in a long charcoal overcoat stood by the window, his massive width blocking the moonlight and casting his face in shadow. Casually—almost playfully—he blew-out cigarette smoke as his pale eyes swivelled to capture the boy whom his bodyguard held. If not for their glaring intensity, they would have made a rather comical pair, and most who met them assumed their roles were switched. But it was the big, brutish Russian who was the employer, and the small, graceful Chinaman who was the employee. Matthew had known and feared them both since childhood. Despite Wang Yao being much shorter and thinner than the boy he held, there was nothing delicate about his ability to incapacitate a victim. His swift speed and clever hands held Matthew at an angle he could not escape from.

                "Forget something?" asked Ivan Braginsky, the loan-shark.

                All of the warmth and happiness Matthew had felt with Gilbert suddenly fled, leaving him cold and exposed. "N-no, it wasn't on p-p-purpose," he stuttered. "I swear, we just—"

                "Where is my money?" Ivan interrupted, his tone polite but merciless. He dropped his cigarette to the floor and stepped on it.

                "I-I—I don't have it, Art does. He does, really, but he's... not here right now. But he has it. You'll get it. If you just come back tomorrow—"

                "Oh, look at you," Ivan taunted as he drew closer. " _You_ giving _me_ orders, telling _me_ to come back tomorrow. Isn't that cute, Yao? Little Matvey thinks he's in charge."

                Matthew cowered as Ivan neared, wishing he hadn't spoken; wishing he could disappear. "I don't have it," he repeated softly, terrified. He couldn't make eye-contact. He had been afraid of this man all of his life. "Art does."

                "Well I guess I'll have to leave _Art_ a little message, won't I? And remind you both whom you really belong to. Isn't that right, Yao?"

                Yao didn't speak—he rarely did—but Matthew felt his grip tighten.

                "Please, don't..." Matthew begged when Ivan stopped in front of him and removed his gloves slowly, finger-by-finger. "Please— _please_ , _don't_!" he cried as Yao forced him to the counter and splayed the fingers of his right hand. " _I'm sorry_! _I'm really sorry_ , _please_!" He tried to fight the attack, but Yao held him in a compromising position, using his own lightweight body as leverage and trapping the boy's limbs to keep him in place. Ivan took one of Matthew's fingers and began bending it back, teasingly slow. Matthew's heart pounded and his body trembled in blind fear. " _No_ , _please don't_ — _please_ , _no—no—nn—_

" _AAH—_!"

                Matthew sobbed as he listened to his fragile finger-bones break, one, two, three. Three fingers for the three-thousand monthly credits they owed.

                He slid shakily to the floor when Yao released him and cradled his broken fingers to his chest.

                "Tell _Art_ ," said Ivan, crouching down—Matthew felt his tobacco-flavoured breath, "there will be interest on next month's payment. However he wants to pay it," he added, a sleazy insinuation in his threatening tone, "is entirely up to him." His gaze lingered for a moment on Matthew's tear-streaked face and he licked his lips. He dragged a finger down the boy's cheek, then stood in satisfaction.

                "Goodnight, little Matvey."


	6. Five

**ARTHUR**

It was late-morning when Arthur's groggy brain emerged from an erotic dream that danced on the edges of reality. He realized why as Francis' body slid suggestively against his, straddling him. Arthur was on his stomach, his legs splayed, his hands gripping fistfuls of bed-sheet. He murmured in encouragement as the Frenchman's hand coiled around his cock. " _Mm_ , _yes_..." he whispered in a drowsy voice, arching up as Francis' stiff cock plunged into him from behind. He trembled and pressed his forehead into the pillow as Francis fucked him, his moans muffled by the fabric. It smelled faintly of Francis' cologne. After a bit, the Frenchman's rocking hips gave one final jerk and he came, filling Arthur. Then Arthur's cock released and drenched the bed-sheet.

                " _Bonjour_ , _chéri_ ," Francis whispered, pressing a kiss to Arthur's bare shoulder.

                Soon after, they got up, showered—separately—and then dressed. Arthur declined breakfast as he tugged on his shoes.

                "I need to go," he said, feeling guilty for staying so long. He walked to the flat's front door, then stopped. "Uh, Francis?"

                Francis was leaning casually back against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his bare torso, barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of loose-fitting trousers. He looked even better in the daylight. His long hair hung loosely around his face, still damp; a single curl fell over his forehead into his blue eyes. Arthur's eyes landed on Francis' lips, then followed the defined line of his unshaved jaw down his neck, sliding over his fit torso, his firm pectorals and abs, and down past his navel, where a dusting of fair hair disappeared beneath his waistband. He was beautiful. He looked like an actor or model, someone airbrushed to look perfect; someone genetically modified to look like a fucking fallen angel. Absently, Arthur licked his lips.

                "I have a proposition for you," he said, recapturing Francis' face. He felt himself colouring as he said: "You're good, okay? I admit it, you're _really_ good."

                _Oh_ , _bollocks. Could he look any smugger_?

                Francis' grin revealed his satisfaction, but he merely said: "Oh?"

                "It's exactly what I need... for my job," Arthur said. Francis' grin stiffened; his eyes narrowed a fraction. "It's true that I'm not a good actor, you said so yourself. I think it's because I haven't felt... _that_ ," he alluded to last night's performance, "for a long time. Too long. And if I'm being perfectly honest, I've never felt it quite like... _that_. I think it's what I need. I need something to... reference... when I'm working. So what I'm suggesting is, could we maybe do this again sometime?"

                Francis pursed his lips. "Let me make sure I understand you," he said haltingly. "You want me to fuck you so you can practice method-acting?"

                Arthur exhaled. "Well, if you want to make it sound creepy, then yes. But it's not like it'll mean anything. It's just sex. _Bloody good_ sex, you can't deny it. I was there last night, dearest. I saw the look on your face, too, and you're not _that_ good an actor either. I'm not asking you for anything more than that," he promised. "Think of it as a business proposal. It's just to help my career."

                "Do you even like your job?" Francis asked skeptically.

                "No," Arthur shrugged, "but it pays the bills, which is all that matters."

                Francis stared at him. Arthur waited, but when he realized that a reply was not forthcoming, he continued:

                "You're allowed to say no, you know," he offered, feigning nonchalance, "but it's not like I'm asking you to do something horrible. It's not like you won't get anything out of it. If nothing else, it's a good shag for both of us a few times a week, right?"

                "Uh, yes... I suppose. But I already told you," said Francis firmly, "I don't trade sex for favours."

                "But it's not like that," Arthur argued. "It's not like you owe me anything; it's not like I owe you. Just forget what I said about it being business then, okay? Pretend we're just mates."

                "Friends with benefits—?"

                "Yes, exactly. So?"

                "So—?"

                Arthur regarded Francis expectantly. Francis stared thoughtfully back, absently biting his lower lip. (Arthur wanted to bite that lip.) He waited for the Frenchman to say something, anything. He waited, feeling increasingly self-conscious given the intimacy of his request. He waited until he finally lost his temper.

                "Oh, for the love of sodding Saint George!" he growled in exasperation. "Do you want to shag me again this Wednesday, or not?"

                Francis fixed Arthur with a cool stare and wordlessly nodded.

* * *

**LOVINO**

Lovino woke up starving. He hadn't eaten anything in forty-eight hours and it was the growling of his empty stomach that woke him. At first, he was disoriented. The dark, cluttered bedroom was not his; the high double-bed was not his; the clothes and books and albums and films and everything else strewn haphazardly about were not his. ( _Is that the poster of a Spanish football club_? _Fuck_ , _just kill me now_.) Slowly, he crawled out of bed, Antonio's borrowed clothes hanging off of his body, and shuffled to the door. He wondered what time it was, absently finger-combing his hair on his way to the washroom, but the sound of Spanish made him stop. Curiously, he reversed until he could see the open kitchen, where Antonio's luscious body was on shameless display. The Spaniard was half-dancing around the kitchen, cooking, wearing nothing but his yellow boxer-shorts and an unbuttoned shirt. Spellbound, Lovino could do nothing but stare at the rippling muscles beneath the man's beautiful tanned skin as he moved. His steps were fluid, shoulders and back stretching and flexing as he reached for ingredients, and his hips— _Oh God_ , _his hips_ —rocked like a dancer's, his boxer-shorts hugging low.

                " _Hola_ , Lovinito," Antonio smiled.

                Lovino produced sounds, but no words: " _Urm...mma...nf_."

                Antonio reached overhead and turned down the radio's volume. "Are you still feeling unwell?" he misread in concern. "You're a bit flushed."

                "I-I-I—I'm fine," Lovino barked too loudly. "I, uh... I'm just going to, uh..." He pointed in the direction of the washroom, then stalked off.

                Once inside, he stuck the laundry hamper against the door (because there was no lock), then splashed his red face with cold water.

                _Oh my God_ , he nearly groaned, _he's so fucking hot_! _I want to touch him all over. I want to kiss him all over. I want to lick him all_ —

                _No_ , _stop_! _I can't think like that. It's dangerous to think like that._

                He shook his head, trying to shake away the image of half-naked Antonio. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched the edges of the countertop, but that's when he heard the Spaniard's melodic voice singing faintly from the kitchen. His singing-voice was as beautiful as his figure and both were having a profound impact on Lovino's deprived body. Specifically, his lower-body. It had been a long time since he had had sex with anything more than his right hand. (Over a year, in fact, but he wasn't about to tell anyone that.) Last night might have finally changed that, but he had missed his chance because of food-poisoning— _Dear Arthur_ , _I hate you eternally_ , _you cheap_ , _selfish jerk-bastard_ , _love Lovino_ —and now his neglected cock seemed to be demanding compensation. _How embarrassing_.

                In a voice he intended to sound casual, but which trembled, he called: "H-hey, Green Eyes? Can I use your shower?"

                "Sure! Your clothes are clean, too. I'll put them on the counter for you—"

                "No, no! Don't come in here! Just leave them in the hall!"

                "Okay, whatever you want, Lovi!"

                 Lovino was afraid of taking a suspiciously long shower, but he needn't have worried because a mental-image of Antonio produced embarrassingly fast results. (He only hoped that the shower was loud enough to cover his voice.)

                _Fuck_.

                It felt so good to be clean. Lovino raided Antonio's washroom for toothpaste, then got dressed in his clothes from last night—which had been laundered with fabric softener! (Lovino missed fabric softener)—and returned to the kitchen, feeling much more like himself. Or, as much as he could feel like himself after having vomited and jerked-off in the Spaniard's washroom on their first date. Fortunately, Lovino's lingering had given Antonio plenty of time to get properly dressed, and he now wore enough clothing to hide enough of his god-like body to save Lovino a hundred Ave Marias for impure thoughts. Still, he was cautious as he sat down at the Spaniard's breakfast table.

                "I thought you'd be hungry," Antonio smiled, placing a plate of considerately light-flavoured food in front of the Italian.

                "Thanks," Lovino muttered, blushing at Antonio's proximity.

                "So, Lovi," Antonio said, sitting down across from him. He rested his chin on his folded hands, elbows on the tabletop, "can I see you again?"

                Lovino choked on a mouthful of juice. "God, you don't waste time, do you?"

                "I'm direct."

                "I noticed."

                Antonio chuckled. "I'd really like to take you out again. Will you give me a second chance?"

                Lovino coughed again, then gave up and set the juice aside. " _You_? It wasn't _your_ fault I got sick."

                "I know, but it _is_ my fault my friends were there," Antonio admitted. "I'm sorry about that, by the way. Last night wasn't supposed to be like that."

                "No shit."

                "I'd really like a second chance to try to impress you, Lovi."

                _Then strip naked._

"There's got to be something I can do to make it up to you?"

                _NAKED._

"Will you let me take you out properly, just the two of us?"

                Lovino swallowed. "Oh, uh..."

                Despite him panting over the prospect of sex with the beautiful green-eyed Spaniard, Lovino knew he should refuse. It was the safer, smarter option. The signs were all there: Antonio's distant gaze; the way his moods changed so quickly,  from happy to stern in the blink of an eye; his effortless commanding nature; his cabinet full of medicinal drugs. They were all red flags that made Lovino nervous, because he knew exactly where they led. Yes, the Spaniard was good-looking, but he was also potentially dangerous. That would be—that _had been_ —Lovino's luck.

                _No_ , _I shouldn't. I absolutely shouldn't say_ —

                "Yeah, okay," he said. "I'll go out with you. But, uh..." He glanced down, losing his nerve. "Are you sure you want to go out with _me_ after last night?"

                Antonio blinked, perplexed. "Of course I do. Lovino," he said, using Lovino's given-name properly for the first time since their introduction, "I think you're wonderful."

                "O-oh," Lovino stuttered, blushing redder. _Well_ , _fuck._ "Uh, thanks. Thanks for... everything," he said shyly. "You're not such a bad guy yourself, you know."

                "Ah, but Lovi," Antonio grinned wickedly, wiggling his eyebrows. It took Lovino a second to realize that he was being playful, not serious. "You only think that because you barely know me."

                "Oh, but I want to." Lovino couldn't help the teasing smile that curled his lips as he threw Antonio's recycled words back at him.

                Antonio laughed and Lovino relaxed. "Wednesday, then?" asked the Spaniard, smiling.

                Lovino nodded. "Wednesday."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

_What the bloody-hell happened to you_?"

                Matthew flinched. He looked like Lovino had when he had first come to them over a year ago, bruised and battered, his forearm in a sling, and wearing his ex-boyfriend's jacket, which was too big for him. Matthew mimicked that timid posture now, looking small and defensive as if the volume of Arthur's voice could hurt him. _Did he sleep at all last night_? Matthew had dark shadows encircling his eyes that matched the fading bruise on his cheek, paler than the fresh bruises—dark purple—on his right wrist. But it was nothing compared to the ugly black discolouration of his middle fingers, which were swollen and hanging stiffly at the wrong angle.

                "Let me see," Arthur said hoarsely, sitting on the bed's edge. He had barely touched the boy's fingertip before Matthew yelped and pulled back, crying: " _Don't_!" Arthur felt a stab of guilt, then rage. He remembered the flat's front door, which looked like it had been kicked-in, the lock broken. A horrible mental-image accompanied the evidence in Arthur's mind and he swallowed in ire.

                "Matthew, pet," he said in a dangerous voice, "who did this to you? Was it that German?"

                Matthew's head snapped up. "Gilbert—? No!" he gasped in horror. "No, of course not!" Self-consciously, he pulled the leather-jacket tighter around himself, like armour that could protect him. His eyes were big and frightened. He looked sadly at Arthur, as if he didn't want to speak for fear of it sounding like an accusation. "Art, you forgot this month's payment.

                "I'm so sorry," he added hurriedly, but Arthur barely heard. His face lost its colour and his eyes widened in realization. He felt like someone had just punched him in the stomach.

                "Oh my God, I didn't... I didn't pay the... I forgot... Oh my God." He covered his mouth and sat back, the look of Matthew's injured fingers now making him feel dizzy. "This is my fault," he whispered, feeling sick with guilt. "I'm so sorry, poppet, I... I'm so, so sorry. I'll make it better," he promised. "I'll take you to the ER, come on, I'll—"

                "No, not the ER," Matthew resisted. "They ask too many questions."

                Both Arthur and Matthew knew what would happen to them—to Matthew—if people started asking the right kind of questions.               

                "Okay," said Arthur resolutely, "then give me your hand, I'll do it."

                "N-no," Matthew croaked in fear.

                "Matthew," Arthur said as gently as he could manage. "If the bones aren't re-set, then your fingers won't heal properly and they'll be crippled. It's going to hurt," he admitted, combing back Matthew's messy hair, hooking a curl behind his ear, "but it has to be done."

                He didn't give Matthew a chance to argue. He got up and fetched the First-Aid kit they kept in the kitchen cabinet, as well as a tea-towel. Then he grabbed a bottle of Irish whiskey and set it on the bedside-table, no glass, just the bottle. "Here," said Arthur, plopping a dose of cheap over-the-counter painkillers into Matthew's uninjured hand and pushing the bottle toward him. "Swallow, drink, bite down"—on the towel—"and for God's sake try not to move.

                "Ready? One, two, three—"

                " _A-AH_!"

                Afterward, Arthur splinted and bandaged Matthew's fingers as Matthew gulped down more whiskey. Then the Englishman made his exhausted cousin a cuppa tea and tucked him into bed to rest.

                "I'm so sorry," he repeated, touching Matthew's forehead. "This will never happen to you again, I promise."

                "It's not your fault, Art. Please don't think it is."

                Arthur nodded for Matthew's benefit, then left the bedroom. _Not my fault_? he thought, fumbling in the back of the linen closet. _How could it possibly not be my fault_? _I wasn't here to stop it._ He grabbed what he was looking for and quietly slipped out of the flat, heading downstairs. As he pushed the backdoor open and stepped into the alley, he thought about where he _had_ been and a flood of guilt submerged him. While he had been having the best sex of his life, Matthew had been at the mercy of Ivan Braginsky. He had suffered because Arthur had forgotten to pay. Because Arthur had been with Francis instead of with his family.

                _Of course it's my fucking fault_!

                Gingerly, he lit the cigarette and brought it shakily to his lips.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Matthew grabbed Arthur's cell-phone and typed and re-typed the same message three times before hitting send:

                HI, GIL. IT'S MATT. I CAN'T GO DRIVING TODAY. SORRY.

                Gilbert's reply was instantaneous:

                U OK?

                Matthew's fingers ached and his whole hand throbbed painfully. His head pounded. He was half-drunk on whiskey and painkillers and knew he would feel even worse  later when the effects wore off. And he was exhausted. He typed:

                OF COURSE! I JUST CAN'T MAKE IT TODAY. RAINCHECK? :)

                OK

                Matthew set the cell-phone aside, feeling worse now than before he had texted. He ignored the steaming tea that Arthur had courteously made him and snatched the whiskey bottle instead. He chugged it until his eyes watered and he coughed and felt dizzy. Then he set it aside, laid back, and passed-out.

* * *

**ANTONIO**

As Lovino was stepping out of the metro, a hurrying businessman bumped into him and knocked him forward. "Oh, excuse me!" he said, and reached out in reflex. He grabbed a hold of Lovino's belt to prevent him falling, accidentally groping the boy's backside. Antonio reacted on impulse. He seized the man's wrist and jerked it hard, twisting it back until the man cried-out. In one fluid motion, Antonio shoved him aside and pulled Lovino against his chest, wrapping an arm securely around the Italian. "Hey!" snapped the businessman indignantly. "It was an accident—" He stopped the instant he saw Antonio's glare and hurried off.

                "Uh, you can let go now," said Lovino awkwardly after a moment. His cheek was squished to Antonio's chest.

                Antonio blinked. "Huh? Oh!" He let go and stepped back. "Sorry, Lovi, I didn't mean to—"

                "It's okay," Lovino interrupted, straightening his clothes.

                Antonio nodded. He could feel his body starting to shake. "I should go and apologize to him," he said, forcing a sheepish smile. "Would you excuse me for a minute? I'll be right back!" he promised, jogging off before Lovino could reply.

                As soon as he rounded the corner, he stopped. His heartbeat had accelerated to a dangerous speed and he was sweating—panicking. He grabbed his wallet and fished for a double-dose of medication with his shaking hands, then clumsily ripped off the plastic and swallowed both pills in one mouthful. Then he pursed his lips and closed his eyes and started to count backwards from ten, taking deep therapeutic breaths. He coiled his hands into tight fists and listened to the blood pound in his ears.

                _Ten_ , _nine_ , _eight_...

 _I'm good. I'm fine. There's nothing wrong_ , _nothing to worry about._

 _Seven_ , _six_ , _five..._

 _No need to panic_ , _nothing to fight. Nothing to be upset about. Everything is okay._

                _Four_ , _three_ , _two_...

                _I'm fine_...

                "Antonio—?"

                Antonio flinched, eyes flying open. "Hey, Lovi!" He plastered a bright smile to his face. "I couldn't find him. I guess he already left. Oh, well!"

                Lovino just stared, his hazel eyes revealing concern. He reached tentatively out and laid his hand gently over Antonio's tight knuckles, which stilled at his touch. Quietly, he asked: "What's wrong?"

                Antonio swallowed, then shook his head. "Nothing," he said, softer. He took a deep breath and smiled more easily. "I'm fine.

                "Come on," he said, taking Lovino's hand. He held it loosely, afraid of squeezing too hard, but more afraid to let him go. "I'll walk you home."

                At the building's front door, Lovino stopped, turned, and kissed Antonio. It was a sweet, chaste kiss, so quick and unexpected that Antonio had no time to react.

                "See you Wednesday, Green Eyes."

                Dumbfounded, Antonio watched the Italian's naive retreat with hungry eyes, his gaze going unabashedly to the tempting sway of his narrow hips. He took a step forward, then another, and another... following Lovino like a dog on a leash. When his foot hit the porch step and he realized this, he stopped abruptly. _Fuck_. As soon as the door closed behind Lovino, blocking him from sight, Antonio backed away and took off down the street. He ran as fast as he could, heedless of those he passed. He ran until he gasped and his legs ached and his lungs burned and he had nothing left in him to fuel the Berserker. Only when he had put a safe distance between himself and the tempting Italian did he slow to a jittery walk. Then he pulled out his cell-phone and punched in a number. It rang twice before Francis' voice said:

                " _Salut_ , _Toni_."

                "Fran, I—"

                " _I had the best sex of my life last night. I kid you not_ , _we did it six times_! _It was exhausting_ , _but totally—_ "

                "Fran!" Antonio snapped, short-tempered. "Not now. I-I-I—"

                " _Toni_?" Francis' voice changed, going from playful to parental in a split-second. " _Are you okay_?"

                Antonio clenched and unclenched his free hand, wishing that he had something to squeeze for stress-relief. "Yeah, I'm okay," he said, still breathless. "It's just... getting bad again."

                Francis was quiet for a moment, then he asked: " _How bad_?"

                "Worse than it's been, but not as bad as it could be. I don't know why."

                This was a lie. Antonio suspected that meeting Lovino played a vital role in his shattered self-control, but he didn't want to tell Francis that. He didn't want to admit that Lovino—wanting Lovino—was likely going to cause him a relapse, because he didn't want to stop seeing the Italian. He didn't want to acknowledge how weak-willed he was, too desperate for relapse to keep his internal demons at bay. He knew he was an addict hungry for poison, but it was a poison too delicious to refuse.

                " _Toni_ , _are you there—_?"

                "Yeah, I'm here. It's not bad, Fran. Not yet. It's manageable. I've got drugs for it. I'll be fine. I just..." Antonio paused; his voice got stuck in his throat. "I just wanted to tell someone."

                " _Okay_ , _well... I'm glad you did_ ," said Francis, unconvinced. " _Call me if you feel like you need to_ , _okay_?"

                "Yeah, okay."

                " _Promise me._ "

                "Yeah." Despite his raging internal-conflict, Antonio smiled, touched by his best-friend's worry. "I promise.

                "So," he added, because Francis hadn't hung-up yet. He never hung-up first when Antonio called. Even if Antonio had nothing to say, even if there was dead-air between them, Francis never left first. He always— _always_ —let Antonio do it, even if it took a long time. Antonio didn't know what the hell he had done in life to deserve friends like Francis and Gilbert, but whatever it was must have been something really, really good.

                "So—," he repeated, drawing it way out, feeling better with every step, every breath. Feeling stable as long as Francis was on the line. His smile curled into a conniving grin. "Six times, huh?"

* * *

**GILBERT**

Gilbert tried not to stare at his cell-phone, hoping it would vibrate with a text. He tried to focus on his work, creating a list of witnesses to interrogate, instead of a list of reasons why Matthew had cancelled on him. He tried not to think of what he had done wrong, or why anyone—not just Matthew—would reject him. (That was a bleak list, one that was too long and depressing to think about.) It might have been professional suspicion creeping into his personal-life, but he didn't believe for a minute that Matthew's vague reassurance and happy-face was genuine. He hadn't even bothered to invent an excuse, the stupid boy. Gilbert didn't know if he appreciated that, or felt stung by it. He didn't know what he had gotten wrong, so he didn't know how to correct it. He didn't know how to think about it. He didn't know what to do about it. But most importantly, he _definitely_ didn't know why, why, why it was bothering him so much!

                Irritated, he grabbed his cell-phone and chucked it across the lounge. It landed on the opposite sofa, beside the floor-to-ceiling fireplace. One of the dogs' ears twitched, but neither one awoke.

                "Gil—?" said Ludwig, walking in. "I thought you were going out?"

                "Change of plans," Gilbert grunted, silver-white head bowed over his work. It was strewn across the lounge.

                Ludwig tut in disapproval and wordlessly began tidying the large space. He collected a bag of pretzels, as well as a bowl of Studentenfutter fruit—because Gilbert had eaten everything else, leaving the candied fruit—and several empty beer cans; a discarded hoodie; a pair of socks; a stack of messy notebooks, and a handful of gnawed on pencils ("You're going to get lead-poisoning," said Ludwig, snatching a pencil from between Gilbert's teeth. "No, I won't. It's graphite," Gilbert absently replied.). The only things Ludwig didn't touch were the files stacked on either side of Gilbert. Files containing data the detective had literally spent years collecting. Finally, the younger Beilschmidt huffed in resignation.

                "You're working too hard again, Gil," he said, reprimanding his older brother. "It's nearly three o'clock in the afternoon, haven't you eaten?"

                Gilbert waved absently at the discarded fruit. Ludwig sighed.

                "You can't live on beer and Studentenfutter like a college kid, Gil, you're almost twenty-eight."

                " _What_?" Gilbert's head snapped up, a look of feigned shock on his face. " _I am_? _Does the press know_?"

                "Gil," Ludwig deadpanned. He rescued another pencil from Gilbert's teeth. "Please eat something that's not beer and pretzels. Or graphite."

                "Yes, Mama."

                Ludwig rolled his eyes and left.

                Gilbert snickered, then noticed his cell-phone lying on the opposite couch. He hesitated for a minute, testing his self-control, then crawled across the room and grabbed it.

                NO NEW MESSAGES

                He sighed and went back to work.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

**LATER**

_Mercedes_! What the fuck is this?"

                Francis had snuck into one of Club 69's dressing-rooms in search of evidence, and was rummaging through a vanity when he heard the loud, abrasive voice. Quietly, he peeked into the adjacent room, the door hanging ajar, and clapped a hand to his mouth to stifle a gasp. Matthew stood half-dressed beneath the harsh lights, his body a canvas of fading bruises; his face a signature of abuse without layers of makeup to hide it; his left hand swollen and splinted. He looked like a fragile shell of the boy Francis had met the night before. _Just how much makeup was he wearing_?

                Francis watched as the tall man—Mikkel's club manager—grabbed Matthew's right forearm, making the boy yelp.

                "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he demanded, letting go.

                "Uh, w-working?" Matthew's reply was quiet; Francis barely heard it. Nervously, the boy glanced from left-to-right.

                The manager took one scrutinizing look at his bandaged hand and scoffed. "The hell you are. Not like this. Not looking like the fucking poster-child for domestic abuse. You think the patrons want to see that? No. They want to see something pretty, not a kicked-dog. And what the fuck happened to your face? Actually, never-mind. I don't care. Just get out."

                "But I—"

                "How the fuck are you going to make drinks if you can't use your fucking hand?"

                "Sir, please, I really need the money. I can still—"

                "I don't care what you fucking need, _get out_!" the manager hollered. "You're lucky I don't fire your ass, you stupid, useless brat! Now go! Get out of my fucking sight and don't come back until you look like the pretty, empty-headed little fuck-toy we're paying you to be, and not a goddamn punching-bag!"

                "Y-yes, sir."

                Francis waited for Matthew to grab his coat and leave the dressing-room, then he followed him. On the street outside, he called-out: "Mathieu!"

                The boy instinctively tensed. It was sad.

                "Oh, Francis. Hi," he said, bowing his head. He crossed his arms, his left hand clenching his coat sleeve; his right hand hanging stiffly. "I'm f-fine," he added defensively, noting Francis' pitying stare.

                Francis sighed. He placed a gentle hand on the boy's back. "Come on," he said, guiding Matthew toward the street. "Let's get you home."

                Matthew didn't argue or fight. He merely nodded and let Francis hail a taxi-cab, then climbed obediently in. Francis briefly considered sending the driver off with Matthew's address and a wad of banknotes, but one look at the shattered boy sitting alone in the backseat changed his mind.

                "Toni," he whispered into the hidden microphone, "I've got an errand to run, I'll be right back."

                " _Yeah_ , _sure_. _Is everything okay_?"

                "I don't think so, that's why I'm going."

                Cautiously, Francis ducked into the taxi-cab beside Matthew and directed the driver to the downtown flat. Then he closed the bullet-proof panel, separating the front from the back. It was a poor attempt at privacy, but it was better than nothing. He wanted to ask Matthew what had happened to him. Who had done it? When had they done it? Why had they done it? And was it anything to do with the club? It was the perfect opportunity for an interrogation. A dozen questions tugged at the police detective, whose shoulder-devil told him to take advantage of the boy's state, but when he finally looked at Matthew and saw tears, he simply said:

                "That place is a fucking hell-hole."

                Matthew nodded meekly in agreement. It wasn't until they reached the flat and Francis was helping him out of the vehicle that he spoke. "Francis? Don't tell Gil, okay?"

                It was sad, but Francis couldn't help smiling a little, because it was hopeful, too. The look of a boy who didn't want to destroy a potential relationship with ugly truths.

                _Looks like you made a better impression than I thought_ , _Gil._

                "Of course," he promised Matthew. "I won't say a word."

                Francis took the taxi-cab back to Club 69, but before he could enter the building he was yanked roughly into an alley.

                "What the fuck happened?" asked Gilbert. The streetlight reflected in his red, red eyes, making his face look chalk-white. The rest of him was a tall black shadow. If Francis' didn't know him, the German's angry growling would have frightened him. "Why was Matt crying?"

                 "I'm not allowed to tell you," Francis smiled. Gilbert frowned. Gently, he uncoiled the German's fist from his jacket. "But if I were you," he advised, "I'd swing by that flat tonight sometime _before_ Arthur and Lovino get home."

* * *

**LOVINO**

Oi, Ferrari!" said one of the regulars, slipping a few banknotes into Lovino's waistband as he pulled the dancer onto his lap.

                Lovino rolled his eyes and began to move, grinding his hips against the patron's pelvis. "Again?" he mocked.

                The man smiled as he cupped Lovino's backside. "Awe, you know you're my favourite, Ferrari. When are you going to let me take you away from all this, huh? I'd treat you real nice."

                " _Pft_ , you don't even know my real name," Lovino criticized. _Also_ , _blah_!

                The man was twice Lovino's age with a wife and two pre-teen daughters on the upper west-side. He had told Lovino as much, the smug idiot. If Lovino wasn't so desensitized to sleazy men like this one, he would have shivered at the man's repulsive, adulterous touch. Instead he played it casual, channeling his temper into a hard-to-get act that attracted many competitive patrons. Tips were tips, after all.

                "Besides," he added, leaning down seductively, "you couldn't afford me."

                Lovino felt the man's engorged cock tenting his trousers. He squeezed the dancer's backside and drew him in closer. "Oh, yeah? What is it you want, baby? Clothes, diamonds—?"

                Lovino smirked caddishly. "What I want is—"

                _SMASH_!

                Lovino whipped around and saw Antonio sitting at a table beside the bar, his green eyes wide and unfocused, holding the remains of a broken glass.

                "Sir, are you okay? Oh!" said a waiter, clapping a hand to his mouth. "I'll get a cloth!"

                Antonio blinked, as if waking from a daydream, and unclenched his fist. When he turned it over to inspect it, Lovino saw several shards of glass embedded in his palm. Wordlessly, looking dazed, he picked them out one-by-one and took a cloth from the waiter, which he wrapped twice around his hand. Even by the dim club lights, Lovino could see a dark stain soak into the fabric as the Spaniard got up and quickly left.

                "Oi, Ferrari!" said Lovino's customer impatiently. "Why'd you stop, huh? I'm not paying you to gawk at other men, so get on with it already!"

                "O-oh, right."

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Matthew was brewing tea when someone rapped on the flat door. It was a light knock, but it still scared him. His eyes went first to the clock—it was after midnight; who would be calling so late?—then to the broken lock. His whole body tensed as he backed away from the door. Quickly, he scanned the room for a serviceable weapon. He spotted a broom, but before he could grab it, a voice called from the other side:

                "Matt, it's Gil."

                _Gil—_? _Oh_ , _thank God._

Then realization hit: _Fuck_!

                Matthew pulled down the sleeves of Gilbert's jacket, then yanked the tie out of his hair and furiously tried to re-arrange his curls in a way that looked stylishly bedraggled while still hiding his face. Then he saw his reflection in a wall-mirror and deflated. There was no time to put his contacts back in. _Shit_.

                "Matt—?"

                "I-I-I—I'm here, I'll be right there."

                Slowly—cursing his luck—he plastered a fake smile to his bruised, bespectacled face and opened the door. "Hey, Gil." (He didn't have to fake surprise.)

                Gilbert was standing in the dingy hallway, looking big in the narrow space. His hands hung casually from the pockets of his jet-black jeans, though his posture was typically straight. He smiled at Matthew, then cocked his silvery head and said: "I didn't know you wear glasses. Cute."

                Matthew felt himself blush. "Oh, yeah. My eyesight is pretty bad. I wear contacts most of the time."

                "Do you prefer them?"

                "Not really," Matthew admitted shyly, "but I'm not allowed to wear glasses at work. I earn more tips without them."

                "I see." Pause. "Is that why you're not at work tonight?"

                Matthew wanted to lie, but the look on Gilbert's face suggested that he already knew, or at least suspected the truth. "Did Francis tell you?" he asked, feeling betrayed.

                "No." Gilbert's stare was stark. He glanced from Matthew's face to his crossed arms, his hands hidden inside the jacket's sleeves. "What should he have told me, Matt?"

                "Nothing, it's nothing," Matthew shook his head. "I'm just clumsy. I didn't even go to the ER—"

                "Can I see?"

                _No_ , Matthew thought, _I don't want you to see._

                Wordlessly he extended his bandaged hand and laid it lightly on the German's upturned palm. Gilbert's hand was big and strong and solid, the knuckles cross-hatched with scars. And it was warm. Matthew sucked in his breath, trying to look nonchalant even as he swallowed a whine. "S-see? I-I-I—It's fine," he said, focusing on those red eyes as Gilbert's thumb caressed the underside of the boy's broken fingers, applying the gentlest pressure to gauge the injury.

                "Who did it?" Gilbert asked, releasing him.

                "Art splinted it. He's really good at this sort of thing. He's taken classes on—"

                "No, Matt," Gilbert interrupted sternly. "Who broke your fingers?"

                Matthew paled. "It was just an accident. I did it. I slammed my fingers in the door."

                "Just three fingers?" Gilbert deadpanned.

                "Yes."

                "Just the _middle_ three fingers?"

                Matthew looked down in shame. "Yes."

                Gilbert sighed in reluctant defeat. "Fine. Get this door fixed, alright? It's not safe." He tapped on the broken lock, the splintered wood.

                Matthew nodded. _Please just go away_ , he thought, feeling pathetic. Feeling chastised by Gilbert's stare and his reprimanding words. This was hardly the lasting impression he wanted to make. It was bad enough that Gilbert knew he was lying to him face-to-face, which made the boy feel even guiltier. The last thing he wanted was for Gilbert to reconsider their potential relationship and see him as nothing but a helpless kid (true or not). _Why did you have to come here tonight_? Matthew had cancelled on Gilbert specifically so that the German wouldn't see him like this, with no contacts and no makeup to hide the bruises and no good excuse for his injury. And scared. He didn't want Gilbert to see him scared. It was enough to kill any hope he had had of impressing the confident older man. _Goddamn it_! He felt tears prick his tired eyes. _I didn't want you to see me like this_ —

                "Hey."

                Gilbert's hand brazenly brushed aside a curl to reveal his face. "Don't be scared, okay?"

                A single tear rolled down Matthew's cheek. He couldn't stop it. "I'm sorry... I didn't want you to..."

                "Yeah, I know."

                An awkward silence settled between them as Gilbert stepped back. Matthew didn't—couldn't—look him in the eye. He was afraid he would start crying for real if he did.

                "Do you want me to stay?"

                Matthew shook his head. "No, I'll be fine," he said quietly. "Thank-you, though," he added, offering Gilbert a small smile.

                Gilbert returned it wryly. "You've got my phone-number. Call or text me if you want, I always answer."

                Matthew didn't know what to say, so he merely repeated: "Thank-you."

                For the second time in twenty-four hours he tried to return Gilbert's jacket to him, and for the second time Gilbert refused to take it. Instead, he  nodded conclusively and touched Matthew once more, laying his hand atop the boy's head. It should have felt belittling, but it didn't. It felt safe, the promise of his return full of hope.

                "See you later, Matt."

* * *

**FRANCIS**

" _Salut_ , Gil," Francis answered his cell-phone, at the same time glancing at the clock on the mantle. It was a half-hour later than he had expected.

                " _I want in_ ," said Gilbert bluntly. " _You're investigating Matt and Arthur_ , _aren't you_? _Because something is going on with them_ , _something dangerous_ , _and I want to know what it is_ , _so I want in on this private investigation of yours._ "

                Francis leant back and smiled in secret self-congratulations. "I thought you might. I wonder what could have possibly changed your mind, Gil?"

                " _You're a fucking bastard_ , _you know that_ , _Fran_?"

                Francis shrugged, though Gilbert couldn't see it. "You're a visual person, Gil. And you're too good a detective to mix your professional and personal life without a reason. A good reason. I needed you to see it for yourself. Besides, I couldn't have told you anyway. I was sworn to secrecy."

                " _Bastard_ ," Gilbert growled. Pause. " _Are you at home_?"

                "Yes."

                " _Alone_?"

                Francis rolled his eyes. "Yes."

                " _Good_ , _I'm coming over right now and you're going to share everything you've found so far._ "

                There was a bit of dead-air then, as if Gilbert had lowered the cell-phone. When his voice returned, it was angrier than before. In a tone that betrayed his feelings, he said:

                " _Fran—_? _Who in hell would want to hurt the sweetest boy in the whole goddamn world_?"

                Francis sighed. "I don't know, Gil. But that's what we're going to find out."


	7. Six

**GILBERT**

**WEDNESDAY**

Okay, what do we know so far?"

                Gilbert was lying on his back, upside-down, his long legs kicked over the back of Francis' armchair. He stared at the ceiling and lifted his fist overhead, stabbing one finger into the air for each point:

                "We know Arthur and Matt are first-cousins. We know that Arthur was born in England, and Matt was born in Canada. According to Arthur's birth certificate, his mom is a woman called Alice Kirkland, whose whereabouts are currently unknown, and there's no information about his dad. Matt's mom was Alice's sister, Madeline. She married Matt's stepfather fifteen years ago. He died nine years ago, cause unknown; and she died seven years ago of cancer. We also know they grew-up in the east-end and were poor as shit. Correction, they _are_ poor as shit. Matt's stepdad left them in crushing debt.

                "Are you sure there's nothing illegal about that?" Gilbert added, glancing at Francis. "It sounds shady."

                Francis paused in writing. "I don't know," he said thoughtfully, tapping a pen against his head. "It's not as if I don't have my suspicions, but nothing I've found suggests foul-play. I know how you feel about it, Gil, but there's no evidence. Mathieu's stepfather was simply horrible with money."

                Gilbert's eyes narrowed. He didn't believe for a minute that a shady gangster or loan-shark wasn't involved. He just couldn't prove it—yet.

                "We know that Arthur dropped-out of high-school in Year Three," he continued. "And that Matt graduated, uh... Actually, we need to contact the school to confirm that he _did_ graduate." He snapped his fingers at Francis, who made a note. "And we need his birth certificate and medical records. It's weird that he has no banking information either, or... _anything._ There's nothing in his name. Frankly, if Matt wasn't related to Arthur it's like he wouldn't exist at all. That's literally the only legal thing we know about him.

                "We know that they were evicted from their old house in the east-end and moved downtown two years ago," he continued. "We know that Matt's been a bartender at Club 69 for the last two years, and that Arthur is a porn star. _Oh_ , _la_ , _la_!" he grinned teasingly at Francis.

                Francis rolled his eyes and bounced a paper-ball off Gilbert's nose.

                "We know that Lovino moved in about a year ago. Side-note, we need to search Lovino's file and see who that spoiled brat really is. I don't believe for a fucking second he's from the east-end. Should we ask Toni to look into it?"

                " _No_ ," Francis said, too stern to be innocent, but too determined to argue. "Toni has enough to work on right now," he said evasively.

                Gilbert narrowed his eyes, but didn't pry. "O-kay. Then we should—"

                "Oh!" Francis leapt up, abandoning his notes. "Is that the time? _Merde_! Gil, you need to go."

                "Huh? Why?" he asked, kicking his legs overhead and landing clumsily on the floor. The blood rushed back to his head, flushing his face. He blinked, disoriented, then Francis was yanking him up.

                "I'm having company," he said vaguely, pushing Gilbert toward the door while kicking the evidence of the investigation under the sofa.

                "Company? At two o'clock in the afternoon?" Gilbert cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. "It's a hookup, isn't it?"

                " _Just go_ , _please_ ," Francis begged.

                Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I'm gone," he chuckled, opening the flat's front-door. "But you're wasting a valuable resource, you know. I'm an excellent wing-man for—Oh, shit."

                He stopped abruptly. The front-door had opened to reveal Arthur, his surprise quickly melting into disdain.

                "Oh," said Gilbert anticlimactically. "It's just you."

                Arthur side-stepped at the same time Gilbert did, locking them in an awkward dance in the doorway. Finally, Gilbert grabbed Arthur's skinny shoulders and pushed him gently aside. Or, he had _thought_ it was gentle, but Arthur stumbled into the doorframe, then glared at Gilbert in contempt. _Wow_ , _he's even lighter than Matt._ Gilbert knew that he was bigger than the average man, but, even so, it didn't hide the fact that Arthur and Matthew were malnourished and worryingly frail because of it. _You could definitely use a few extra pounds on you_ , he thought of Arthur. (So could Matthew, but it was better if Gilbert didn't think about what the boy's body—his curves—would feel like with a little more weight. Not right now.) He gave Arthur a half-shrug in apology and then quickly took his leave. From the flat, he heard Francis' flustered voice calling: " _Bonjour_ , _chéri_!"

                Once outside, he texted Antonio: WHERE R U?

                It took a minute for Antonio's reply: WITH LOVI. FUCK OFF.

                Gilbert sighed in boredom. He had forgotten that Antonio had a date today, too. (He briefly wondered if Arthur technically counted as a date, but wasn't going to stick around to find out.) He thought about who else he could bother: Ludwig was working, so he wasn't an option. He supposed he could visit with one of his cousins, but Lars was studying for finals (the clever bastard was in medical school), and interrupting Roderich's work to bully him would be dangerous if that barbaric wife of his was home.

                Defeated, he dragged his feet back to his car, wishing that Matthew was well enough to go out for—

                He stopped, struck by an obvious thought.

                _Who says we have to go out_?

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Matthew opened the door in his pajamas. Or what constituted his pajamas—tartan shorts and a white hoodie that was much too big. It hung in folds to his mid-thigh, but this time he didn't care. This time he didn't fuss and pull his hair out of its tie, or try to hide his bespectacled face. This time he recognized the rhythmic knock and opened the broken door in pleasant surprise.

                "Hey, Gil. What are you doing here?"

                "You're not working tonight, right?" Gilbert asked, discretely eyeing Matthew's injured hand. "I thought you might be bored."

                And... you're the cure?"

                "Always," Gilbert grinned. He strode arrogantly into the flat, giving Matthew a wolfish look. "I'm handfuls of fun."

                "Oh, I bet," Matthew said, playing along. "Big German hands, eh?"

                "That's right," Gilbert chuckled, leaning in. "So, what do you say, _schatzi_? Want to spend the afternoon with me— _Gah_ , _fuck_!"

                Matthew clapped a hand to his mouth as Gilbert pitched forward, having stumbled over Lovino's shoes.

                "Oh, shut up," said the German, blushing as Matthew's laughter filled the flat.

                "Sorry, sorry," he gasped.

                "But for real, Matt," said Gilbert, dropping the mock-seduction. He produced a shoulder-bag with his laptop and salty, buttery snacks stuffed inside. "Want to binge-watch some bad T.V.?"

                Matthew smiled. "Always."

* * *

**LOVINO**

Lovino met Antonio at the dry fountain in the park and couldn't hide the smile that immediately stole over his face. Antonio waved at him, even though there was no one else there; it was only two o'clock in the afternoon.

                " _Hola_ , Lovi!" he called jubilantly. " _Wow_ , you look great!" he added, raking the Italian's approaching figure.

                Lovino tried to keep his smile sweet and modest, but the flattery was very well-received. He was glad that Antonio appreciated the time and effort he took to get ready, because he loved dressing to impress. He loved putting his artistic skills to use. And he loved the compliments he got for his beauty, even from admiring club patrons... most of the time... "Call it shallow," he had confided to Feliciano once, "but I like to be reminded how good-looking I am." Feliciano came from the same ilk as Lovino and was also artistically-inclined, so he understood. But how Arthur and Matthew could stand to be seen out in public in ugly, outdated, faded, and oversized clothes—no cosmetics, no hair products—made the Italian cringe. ("I'm not walking next to you if you wear that," he had said to Arthur on more than one occasion.) He didn't know what was worse: Matthew's complete disregard for his looks, or Arthur thinking that he actually had taste. Lovino could only hope that Francis corrected him, because the Frenchman was quite fashionable, unlike Gilbert, who looked like someone had crossbred a priest with a criminal. Antonio, of course, looked good in anything. He could wear a full bunny costume from head-to-toe and still look delicious; one disarming smile was all it took. You just couldn't hide that kind of handsome, Lovino thought.

                " _Ciao_ ," he said, smiling as he took Antonio's proffered hand.

                They left the park and took the metro to the theatre district uptown. It was a narrow street that bustled with nightlife, but slept from dawn to dusk except for the places that catered to tourists. Antonio led Lovino to one of the theatres, which had a big marquis sign displaying the matinee that was playing. However, he was disappointed when a teenager working the kiosk, said: "Sorry, the three o'clock is sold out. Better luck next time."

                "Oh," said Antonio sheepishly. "I guess I should've bought tickets in advance. Sorry about that, Lovi."

                "That's okay," Lovino shrugged. "Let's just do something else," he said, hoping he didn't sound too eager, but at the same time afraid of the date ending too soon—again.

                "Like what?" Antonio asked. "All of the bars and restaurants and clubs aren't open until later. I suppose we could get lunch—?"

                "I'm not hungry, I just ate."

                "Me, too," Antonio admitted. "Well, uh... Oh! I know!" He fished a single coin out of his pocket and flipped it in the air, then caught it and slapped it on the back of his hand. "Heads we turn right, tails we turn left."

                Lovino frowned. "What?"

                Antonio smiled and nodded to the intersection. "Heads!" he peeked. Then he took Lovino's hand and pulled him down the right side of the street. "Come on, let's just see where we end up."

                "What if we get lost?"

                Antonio turned his head and winked. "I sincerely hope we do. It'll be an adventure. I've never been to this part of town before."

                "Me, neither," Lovino lied. He looked from left-to-right, recognizing the artisan shops and cafés. If he craned his neck, he could see the spires of his old University over the chimneys. The theatre district—or art district—was also the oldest part of the city (the oldest part that had been conserved anyway), which attracted the most tourists. It looked quaint despite its size, with cobbled pedestrian walks and street-sellers that peddled overpriced wares. Lovino knew it like the back of his hand. It had been his playground once-upon-a-time. He remembered toting his paints and sketchbooks from one end of the long street to the other with his brother beside him flashing photographs of everyone and everything. He remembered how much he had loved setting up his easel in the plaza and painting the afternoon away, a pallet in one hand, a cigarette in the other. (God, he'd kill for a cigarette.)

                "Tails!" Antonio said, redirecting Lovino's attention. They were standing in front of a palm-reader. Antonio smirked and flipped the coin. "Heads we keep walking, tails we have our fortunes told."

                Lovino grimaced. "Seriously?"

                " _Tails_!"

                Antonio ushered him forward. "Excuse me, _signora_? My friend and I would like to know our futures!"

                "Ah, such handsome young men!" she smiled. "Please, come—come and sit down, don't be shy," she said as Antonio pressed down on Lovino's shoulders, making him sit in front of her. "Your hand, dear."

                Lovino felt foolish as he let the fortune-teller inspect his palm, but Antonio's excited energy counteracted his embarrassment. He liked that the Spaniard's hands were still resting on his shoulders.

                "A long, healthy life line," she traced, "and this one here means you'll have good fortune. I see riches in your future, my dear."

                Lovino feigned delight for Antonio's benefit.

                Then the fortune-teller's smile curled slyly and she dragged her polished fingernail down a particularly long line. "This is your love line," she said, her gaze sliding between Lovino and Antonio knowingly. The Italian felt himself blush. "This break at the beginning means you'll have a broken relationship—a lost love. But do you see how the line mends itself here? And how long it is? That means a life-long love. And these two lines beside it? Those are your two children," she smiled.

                Lovino blushed redder and quickly withdrew his hand.

                Antonio plunged his hand forward. "Okay, now do me!"

                The fortune-teller laughed, but it was short-lived. The moment she looked down at Antonio's palm she froze.

                "Oh," she said, frowning deeply. "Oh, my."

                "What is it?" Lovino asked. Even though he suspected it was all a dramatic act, the fortune-teller's distress looked genuine enough to make him uncomfortable.

                "My dear," she said to Antonio, "your lines are all confused. They're _all_ broken. This one is fractured beyond anything I've ever seen, which is very upsetting. And impossible."

                "Why's that?" Antonio asked.

                "Well, because it's your life line." The fortune-teller looked up sympathetically. "It means you should already be dead."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Are you hungry?" Francis asked.

                "Starving," Arthur murmured, his voice muffled in a pillow. "But I don't want to move."

                "We have that in common," Francis teased. He kissed Arthur's bare shoulder-blade, then got out of the bed. "I don't want you to move either. I'd keep you in my bed forever if I could."

                "Feed me first," Arthur countered, hiding a smile, "then we'll talk."

                Francis chuckled and left the bedroom.

                Eventually, Arthur did pull himself away from the comfort of Francis' big bed. He dressed in his boxer-shorts and groped on the messy floor for a t-shirt, which happened to be Francis', and then ventured out. He needn't worry about layering, because the Frenchman kept his home toasty-warm, which was a nice change from Arthur's drafty flat. As he walked, he stretched his arms overhead and felt the pull in his muscles from toes to fingertips. He hadn't used them quite like that in a long time.

                Francis was in the large kitchen cooking something that made Arthur's mouth water He, too, had opted for minimal coverage and only wore a pair of light-coloured trousers that made his suntan look dark gold. Arthur helped himself to a glass of water and then sat at the table. He waited a minute, admiring the view, then said:

                "How's the investigation going— _Detective_?"

                Francis smirked, but said: "I'm afraid that's confidential, _chéri_."

                "Even to a potential informant?"

                That gave Francis pause. He finished plating the food and then joined Arthur at the table. "You'd be willing to talk?" he asked.

                "Maybe." Arthur shrugged, popping a crisp cherry tomato into his mouth. But Francis didn't buy the cavalier act. He merely stared at the Englishman, waiting patiently until he surrendered.

                "If I give you some names," he said hesitantly, "will you make sure no one ever finds out it was me who told?"

                "Yes, of course."

                " _If_ I do," Arthur repeated insistently, "will you promise to protect us—Matthew and Lovino too? Promise that nothing bad will happen to us?"

                Francis' face softened. He reached across the table and took Arthur's hand. "I promise," he said.

* * *

**ANTONIO**

After Antonio led Lovino quickly away from the fortune-teller— _that could've ended better_ —he let the coin take them into an art studio, a sweets shop, up the city's historic watchtower—where he goaded Lovino into taking a photograph with him; the cityscape made an excellent backdrop—and then to a vendor who sold refinished guitars, which Lovino had to drag him away from.

                "I didn't know you play guitar," he said as they waited in the queue for hot chestnuts, Lovino bouncing on his toes to stay warm.

                "A little," Antonio said modestly.

                Lovino snorted. "Yeah, sure. Joaquín Sabina only plays _a little_ , too," he teased.

                Antonio smiled. Maybe he had gotten a little carried away playing in the plaza, a little lost in the music—and maybe he had wanted to show-off a little, too—but it had been fun, especially when those two little kids had started dancing at his feet. Their father had thought him a street performer and had tipped him a fiver for the entertainment, which is what he handed to the cook now in exchange for the chestnuts. Antonio had always loved watching the street musicians as a child; he had always wanted to _be_ one. ("What, a fucking minstrel?" Gilbert had laughed when Antonio confessed it. "Like, _fee fi fiddle dee dum_?" Antonio had cocked a bemused eyebrow: "The fuck kind of music do you listen to, Gil?")

                "You should sing next time, too," Lovino said, blowing on the steaming chestnuts. "You've got a nice voice."

                Antonio couldn't tell if Lovino was teasing or not, but he played along anyway.

                "Next time?" he said, arching an eyebrow. "But what would I sing?"

                Lovino shrugged and took a bite.

                "How about—" Antonio thrust his hands out, jerked his hips, and spontaneously burst into song:

 

                " _Dale a tu cuerpo alegria Macarena_

_Que tu cuerpo es pa' darle alegria y cosa buena_ ,

_Dale a tu cuerpo alegria Macarena_

_Eeeeh_ , _Macarena_!

 

"¡ _Aay_!" he hollered before Lovino pressed a hand to his mouth.

                "Oh my God, stop!" he pleaded, trying desperately not to laugh. "People are staring at us, you weirdo!" To silence him, he shoved a chestnut in Antonio's mouth.

                "I thought you liked being stared at." Antonio swallowed, and purred: " _Ferrari_."

                Lovino gave Antonio a look, then took the coin from the Spaniard's pocket and flipped it. "Come on, Green Eyes, looks like we're going to the arcade."

                An hour-and-a-half later, Antonio was standing at the prize counter with a handful of vibrant tickets. "I like that one," he pointed to a plush bull sitting on a shelf.

                Lovino rolled his eyes. "I'm not a five-year-old girl, you know," he grumbled, though he accepted the toy.

                "Call it a souvenir from our first successful date," Antonio winked.

                "Date's not over yet, Green Eyes. Don't jinx it."

                They were on their way to the exit, but had to stop to dodge a trio of kids, who were running in the opposite direction.

                "Give him back!" shouted the littlest girl. "I won him! He's mine, give him back!" She grabbed the legs of a plush elephant, but the older girl—an older sister—gave the head an almighty tug and ripped it right off. "Oh, no! You killed him!" the little one cried.

                "Whatever, it was stupid anyway. Don't be a baby," said her sister, then dashed off with her friend.

                The little girl collected the pieces of her ruined toy and stared down at them sadly, her eyes glassy with tears.

                Lovino hesitated for a moment, then slowly approached.

                "Hey there," he said, kneeling down. He smiled at the girl and held up the plush bull. "My boyfriend won this guy, but I can't bring him home. Will you take care of him for me?"

                The little girl nodded fervently, her big brown eyes aglow with renewed hope and neon lights.

                Lovino handed the toy to her. "You're going to take good care of him, right?"

                "Yes, I will," she promised, hugging it. "What's his name?"

                Lovino smiled. "Antonio."

                Antonio chuckled as the little girl thanked Lovino and toddled happily off. Then he slipped his arms around the Italian from behind and rested his chin on his shoulder. "I really like you," he said.

                "Oh, really—? Well, I'm glad you told me, otherwise I'd never have known," said Lovino sarcastically. But he didn't step out of Antonio's embrace. In fact, he turned his head so that their faces were only inches apart—their lips only inches apart.

                "This has been really fun," he said softly.

                Antonio felt his heartbeat quicken. He pulled Lovino closer, squeezing him tighter. His eyes lowered to the Italian's soft, enticing lips, which were parted in anticipation. Antonio felt suspended in time for a moment, a tunnel of time wherein nothing else existed but them, just he and the wonderful, beautiful Italian he wanted desperately to kiss. Absently his hand slid up the column of Lovino's neck and cupped the back of his head, silky strands of chocolate hair sliding between his fingers. He wanted to clench it, pull it. He wanted to drag Lovino's head back to expose his vulnerability, but he needn't bother. Lovino yielded to Antonio of his own accord and tipped his head up, closing the distance between them. His eyelids fell closed. Antonio swooped down—

                "That's the man, Mum!"

                Antonio pulled back abruptly. Lovino's eyes snapped open and he stepped away.

                The little girl was hugging Antonio the Bull and holding her mother's hand.

                "I hope you said thank-you, young lady."

                "I did, Mum! I did!" The girl looked at Lovino for proof.

                "She did," he confirmed, trying to look cavalier.

                The woman smiled gratefully and then continued trying to corral her daughters.

                Antonio's heart was still pounding. He tried to resist the temptation, but he wanted to touch Lovino so badly. He hoped it didn't show as he offered his hand.

                "You told that kid I was your boyfriend," he said, smiling eagerly.

                "Well, I doubt she would've understood _guy who weaseled a date out of me in a strip-club_ ," he replied.

                The moment Lovino's hand touched Antonio's, the Spaniard began walking backwards, pulling Lovino with him. "I like _boyfriend_ better," he smirked.

                He led Lovino out of the arcade—away from people and impressionable children—and into a garden: the closed patio of a café. It was empty. There, he pulled the Italian into his arms and kissed him. It wasn't as soft or sweet a kiss as he had intended, but Lovino responded willingly, so Antonio didn't stop. He closed his eyes and let himself sink into the touch he had yearned for since seeing Lovino on-stage. He wrapped his arms around the dancer and pushed forward, bending Lovino backwards, arching his back. ( _So flexible_ , he thought excitedly.) The Italian moaned into Antonio's mouth and Antonio swallowed it. He took it as encouragement and let it fuel his basest, animal desires. He wanted this man with every fibre of his being; he wanted to kiss him and hold him and touch him and fuck him. Here. Now. God, he wanted it _so bad_.

                " _Tonio_..." Lovino murmured breathlessly. It was such a beautiful sound.

                He squeezed Lovino's hips and jerked him so that his pelvis grinded against the Spaniard's groin. He slid one hand to Lovino's backside and groped shamelessly.

                "Hey," Lovino pulled back. "We're in public."

                Antonio murmured dismissively and recaptured Lovino's lips. He felt aggressively hungry. He pulled Lovino in and kissed him again and again.

                "Hey, that's enough," Lovino said, his words muffled by Antonio's lips. "Toni, I said that's enough— _get off_!"

                Lovino shoved him hard.

                In reflex Antonio raised his hand, but he stopped himself in time, seeing Lovino instinctively flinch.

                Lovino looked up at him, hazel eyes wide in shock.

                Then the panic set in.

                _Oh_ , _no. No_ , _no_ , _no—_! _Oh_ , _fuck no_! _What have I done_?

                "I-I-I—I'm s-s-sorry," he stuttered, stumbling back, lowering his hand. He was shaking badly. "Lovi, please forgive me, I-I-I—I didn't mean to, I—"

                " _Lovino Vargas_? Is that you?"

* * *

**LOVINO**

Lovino didn't know what was happening. One moment he was kissing Antonio, eagerly engaging in a bit of harmless PDA; the next, he had felt like something the Spaniard was trying to devour. He had felt trapped.

                Now, he felt panicked.

                "Lovino Vargas! It _is_ you!" said the man, a former-classmate of Lovino's.

                "No," said Lovino in a small, shaken voice, glancing quickly at Antonio. "I'm not—"

                "It's been so long! Two years? What happened to you, Vargas? You just disappeared one day, we all thought you flunked-out—"

                "I don't know you," Lovino interrupted sternly, eyes darting between Antonio and his classmate. "You've got the wrong person."

                The man frowned. "What? Vargas, what are you—"

                "Sorry," Lovino said insincerely. He turned on his heel and tried to escape the garden, but the man grabbed his forearm.

                "Wait a minute, I just want to— _Ah_! _What the fuck_?"

                "Let go of him and I'll let go of you," said Antonio darkly. He had twisted the man's arm behind his back.

                The man let go and Lovino stumbled, freed. And concerned. He had witnessed this same impassioned look on Antonio's face before; he had felt it just moments before his classmate had interrupted them. His behaviour was that of someone mentally unstable. Someone who's moods were unpredictable and uncontrolled. Someone who was dangerous.

                _I should walk away_ , he thought, rooted in place. _I should fucking_ run _away._

                Instead, he cautiously laid a hand on Antonio's forearm. "Come on," he said, ashamed of the wobble in his voice. "Hey, Toni? Come on, let's just go."

                Antonio looked at him—stared at him for a long time. Then blinked.

                "Oh!" he said suddenly, and released the baffled man. "Uh... sorry about that. But you really shouldn't grab people on the street, okay?"

                "But he's—"

                "No one," Lovino hurried. He took Antonio's hand and quickly pulled him away. "I'm no one."

                The metro-ride back downtown was very quiet. Antonio had searched his wallet and cursed colourfully when he didn't find what he wanted. It was Lovino who finally convinced him to get in the empty train carriage, hoping that Antonio was claustrophobic and nothing else. They sat side-by-side, but didn't speak. Antonio just held his hand and squeezed it tight whenever they whizzed through a tunnel, when the darkness swallowed the lights. Lovino could feel the heat of the Spaniard's body and see beads of perspiration on his forehead. _His heart must be beating like mad_ , he thought, since the carriage was unheated. For Antonio's sake, he felt much better when they were back aboveground.

                "Shit," he said, noting the time in the station. It was nearly eight o'clock pm. "I've got to go straight to work."

                "Oh," said Antonio, disappointed. His green eyes were baleful. "I, uh... I wanted to take you out for supper."

                _God_ , _could he look more like a puppy that knows it made a mistake_?

                "Next time," he promised. Then impulsively added: "You _are_ my boyfriend, right?"

                Antonio's eyes widened and he smiled a little in disbelief. "If you still want me to be."

                Lovino raised himself onto his toes and kissed Antonio's cheek. "I do. But next time warn me before you try to devour my tonsils in public, okay?"

                Antonio nodded, a helpless gesture that both said: _I promise_ and _I'm sorry_.

                For a minute they stood facing each other, both feeling the weight of what _wasn't_ being said, but neither one wanting to acknowledge it. _You almost hit me_ , said Lovino's eyes, but his lips remained tightly closed. He had played this game of secrets before. This game of pretend: pretend nothing had happened, pretend nothing was wrong. Once upon a time he had wielded his fiery tongue like a weapon, fighting to protect his pride, but it had never won him any battles, and eventually it was silence and submission that protected him. He had learnt his lesson long ago.

                Finally, Antonio broke the tension by pulling the last of his arcade tokens from his pocket, a small coin with a hole in the centre, which he pressed into Lovino's hand. A memento of their first completed date, for better or worse.

                "Anything for you, _cariño_." 

* * *

  **GILBERT**

Gilbert opened his eyes. When had he fallen asleep? He _never_ fell prey to unscheduled sleep.

                The bedroom was entirely dark, except for the glow from his laptop screen, politely asking if he—the viewer—was still intending to watch the programme.

                He shifted and felt a weight. Matthew was lying in the bed beside him, his head resting on Gilbert's chest, his breathing soft and peaceful in sleep.

                Briefly he thought about laying back and closing his eyes and falling asleep with Matthew's body draped over him, but the time at the bottom of his laptop screen stopped him.

                "Ten o'clock?" he muttered. " _Fuck_."

                "Quarter past, actually."

                Gilbert yanked his laptop screen closed, which was obstructing his vision, and saw Arthur's skinny silhouette in the doorframe. He stood with his arms crossed, like a malignant parent awaiting an explanation.

                "Yeah, yeah," Gilbert groaned, "I'm going."

                He felt Arthur's eyes on him as he awkwardly freed himself from Matthew's unconscious embrace. Gently, he lifted the boy's head and laid it down on a pillow instead, then covered him with the duvet and snuck out of the bed. Matthew rolled into the place Gilbert had just vacated, his curls sprawled everywhere, soft lips parted as he breathed, then exhaled in sleepy contentment. Gilbert rescued the boy's glasses from the top of his head and placed them on the bedside table, then tore his eyes away. He stuffed his belongings into his shoulder-bag and hastily took his leave. He was halfway to the flat's door when Arthur said:

                "Thank-you... for staying with him today." He didn't turn around.

                Gilbert paused. There was something undeniably sad in Arthur's voice; something that sounded like regret. Maybe shame. Maybe fear.

                _I'm going to make the fear stop_ , he thought in determination. _I'm going to solve this and fix what needs fixing. I don't know how_ , _but somehow I'm going to make everything okay._

                Wordlessly, he left.


	8. Seven

**GILBERT**

**ONE MONTH LATER**

**FRIDAY**

Gilbert was sitting in the lounge with the dogs, re-reading the list of criminal names that Francis had given him a month ago. He wouldn't say where he had gotten it, but Detective Beilschmidt was not daft. He suspected that Francis was having more luck squeezing his charge for information than either he or Antonio was. Apart from the fact that Gilbert had stopped actively trying to get information out of Matthew—he had done it once, but  regretted it because it had felt underhanded and _wrong_ , like misleading a spring lamb to the slaughter—the bartender didn't seem to know anything the detectives didn't. The more challenging puzzle was trying to piece together Matthew's past without interrogating him outright.

                Gilbert had _finally_ found a registration form in Matthew's name—Matthew Kirkland—for a recreation road-hockey team, which had led him to interrogate a former-teammate, who was almost as unhelpful a source as Matthew, himself.

                "I don't know," the boy had said, shrugging. "He was always quiet, never said much. He played like a demon, but didn't hang around afterwards. All I know is that he went to the French school—he cursed like a soldier when he played," he added in explanation.

                Gilbert artificially thanked the boy, and then called the city's only French-language school (because Matthew couldn't have simply gone to the same high-school as Arthur; oh, no! that would have been _way_ to easy!). "Matthew Kirkland," he told the secretary, and then waited for her to search the school's database.

                "Sorry," she said. "I've got no record of a Matthew Kirkland ever attending this school."

                _Of course not_. Gilbert took a deep breath and mutilated one of Antonio's stress balls as he asked: "Could you double-check, please? He would've been in attendance three years ago. _Matthew Kirkland_ ," he repeated, then spelled it for emphasis.

                The secretary tutted. "Look, honey," she said, "I've got twelve Matthews, eight Mathieus, and two Mateos on file within the last five years. What do you want me to do, put in a request for _all_ of their transcripts?"

                _This woman doesn't know who she's dealing with_ , Gilbert thought spitefully, confirming the order.

                "That's going to take a while," she huffed.

                "I'm a patient man," Gilbert lied. "Just call me as soon as you receive them."

                That had been a week ago and he hadn't heard back from the high-school since. _Damn administration office_.

                Now he was back to Francis' (Arthur's) list. He was gnawing on a pencil as he scanned the names he had long since memorized, but—bored—his mind wandered back to Matthew, like it always did, like a retriever fetching a ball. He thought of what they would be talking about and which stories he would be telling if they were together right now. He imagined Matthew's laugh, saw his youthful smile. Could he call Matthew? It was late, but the bartender was most likely awake; he was a night owl by necessity.

                _But what would I actually say if I did_? he thought, fingering his cell-phone. _Hi_ , _Matt_! _I just can't seem to get you out of my head_! _Pft_ , _yeah fucking right._

                Gilbert set the cell-phone aside and bowed his head to read—

                —then Ludwig's hand suddenly appeared.

                _WHACK_!

                " _Scheisse_! What was that for?"

                The dogs leapt to attention, spotted Ludwig, and wagged their tails like happy windmills.

                Ludwig gave them each a cursory pat while glowering down at Gilbert. "That's the fifth time you've sighed in half-an-hour."

                Gilbert frowned. "I don't fucking _sigh_."

                "Yes, you do."

                Ludwig held a beer out companionably, letting it dangle between Gilbert's eyes. Gilbert took it and Ludwig sat down on the ottoman across from him. "Talk," he ordered.

                " _What_?"

                Gilbert stared at his little brother in bewilderment. Beilschmidts did not _talk_ , Ludwig knew that. But it didn't stop him from bullying Gilbert.

                "Talk," he repeated. "You've been acting odd lately, Gil—odder than usual. Something more than work is on your mind."

                "It's nothing—"

                "You think I can't tell when my brother is preoccupied with something?" Ludwig countered. "Or, some _one_." Gilbert blushed; Ludwig shook his head in mock-sympathy. "Your poker-face needs work, Gil. I know you're not a coward, but you've been stumbling around for a month now without a fucking clue, so something's obviously stopping you from moving forward with whatever— _who_ ever—you're focused on. Just tell me and I'll try to help you. Otherwise, stop sighing like a lovesick schoolboy and move on.

                "Gil," he said sternly when Gilbert resisted, " _talk_."

                Gilbert cracked the beer open and sat back, slumped in the cushions. He took a long gulp, emptying half the bottle, then reluctantly said:

                "I've kind of been seeing someone."

                "Kind of?"

                "Yeah, kind of."

                "You sure he's not your boyfriend?" Ludwig asked, taking a drink.

                "No. I mean, I don't think so. I..." Gilbert sighed (again). "I don't know."

                "It's been a month, Gil."

                "I know, but it's not like any relationship I've ever had."

                " _Relationship_?" Ludwig snorted.

                Gilbert glared at his brother. So, maybe he couldn't recall his last legitimate relationship, but it was a cheap shot for Ludwig to take. Besides, it's not like _his_ personal life was a vignette of past lovers either.

                Resisting the urge to retort: _Well_ , _when was the last time_ you _got laid_? Gilbert said:

                "Matt and I hangout a lot—as often as I can spare the time. He needs someone with him. That's all it was at first. I just wanted to, I don't know, guard him, I guess. I thought it was my job to protect him. Maybe I still do. But we have fun, you know? We talk and laugh and he's, like, the sweetest, kindest person I've ever met. I like being with him. It's... I don't know, peaceful? I'm like me, but not me when I'm with him. I'm a better me, because I'm only focused on him. I'm relaxed and I totally forget about work when I'm with Matt. I forget about everything." Gilbert looked down, blushing redder. He was running his fingertips around the circumference of the bottle. "And when I'm not with him," he admitted, urged on by Ludwig's silence, "I'm thinking about him. He's like... You know how some guys are so cute you just want to pinch their cheeks and walk them home? And other guys are so sexy you just want to throw them over a table and fuck them blind? Well... Matt's both."

                Ludwig snorted. "Is this the part where you tell me he's _not_ your boyfriend? Because it kind of sounds like he already is. Why not make it official?"

                "Because it's more complicated than that. He's not really someone I should be with," Gilbert said cryptically. "And he's kind of young."

                "Legal though, right?"

                "Nineteen."

                Ludwig shrugged. "That's not so bad. It's only an eight-year age difference. You afraid you can't keep up with a teenager's libido?" he joked.

                Despite himself, Gilbert chuckled. "Nah, I bet he's a kitten in bed."

                Ludwig finished his beer. "Well, Gil, I hate to tell you this. I know how much you like to brood—"

                "I do not _brood_ ," Gilbert grumbled.

                "—but the solution to your tragedy sounds pretty simple. Either dive in headfirst—figuratively-speaking—or quit the kid cold-turkey."

                "I don't think I can do that."

                "Then you can continue to torture yourself for another month until you finally break," said Ludwig, standing, "because we both know that you eventually will. Or," he clapped Gilbert's shoulder fraternally, "you can save yourself some torment, be a fucking man, and ask Matt to be your boyfriend."

                Gilbert hesitated.

                Ludwig took Gilbert's bottle—Gilbert hadn't realized it was empty—and bluntly said: "Stop making excuses."

                Gilbert nodded, finally yielding to his brother's logic. "Yeah, you're right. Thanks," he added awkwardly.

                "Don't make me do this again," Ludwig warned.

                Translation: _Don't fuck it up._

* * *

**SATURDAY**

Sorry," said Matthew sheepishly.

                Gilbert chuckled. "Forget it, I don't care," he said, patting the parking meter Matthew had grossly overpaid. They had only been in the public-house for forty-five minutes having lunch, but the parking spot was now paid for the rest of the afternoon.

                "I'm really sorry," Matthew repeated, feeling guilty for spending Gilbert's money unnecessarily. "I didn't—"

                "Matt, it's _fine_. Now I know what our next lesson needs to be," he teased.

                He tossed Matthew the Mercedes' keys, and then flagged-down a creeping sports car that was searching for a parking spot on the crowded street. The driver rolled down his window, which revealed two university-age men. The driver was showing a false bravado undermined by his youth and the fact that it was probably his parents' car, and the passenger was smiling in a cute, nervous way that suggested a long infatuation. Gilbert would have bet his liver that it was a first date.

                "Hey," he said, holding the parking receipt. "My friend doesn't know what a fucking fiver is," he teased Matt, "so our spot's paid for the next six hours. You want it?"

                "Yeah!" the driver gasped in relief. "Thanks, mate!"

                Gilbert handed him the receipt. "Good luck," he said quietly, smirking.

                The driver looked from Gilbert to Matthew, and said: "Cheers, you too."

                The atmosphere in the car was playful as Matthew drove back downtown to his flat, Gilbert teasing the boy's mistakes and gently correcting him, and fighting Matthew for control of the radio—" _Driver chooses the radio station_! _That's_ your _rule_ , _Gil_! _Abide by it_!"—" _No_ , _no_ , schatzi, _that only applies when_ I'm _driving._ "—but, even so, he couldn't deny that his pulse beat steadily faster with every traffic light that brought them closer to the date's end. ( _Date_? _Is this a date_? _No_ , _no—we're just hanging-out_.) He rolled down the window, hoping the cold December wind would cool his face, but it only whipped his hair into a tangled, gravity-defying mess. _Great_ , _now I look like Albert fucking Einstein_ , he thought, hating his pigment-less hair. He tried to smooth it down as Matthew put the car into park.

                "Hey," he said as he walked Matthew up to the flat. The door was still broken, he noted. (" _Get this door fixed. It's not safe_ ," he said. " _Yeah_ , _I know_ , _I will_ ," Matthew replied for the umpteenth time.) "So, uh, tomorrow..." Gilbert could feel his face heating in betrayal. "There's a game at The Ice Garden tomorrow. Do you, maybe, want to go? With me?" he added, like an idiot.

                "The hockey game? Yeah, of course I do,"  Matthew replied, smiling as if Gilbert had asked: _Do you breathe oxygen_? "But it'll be completely sold-out by now. We'll never get tickets."

                "Let me worry about the tickets," said Gilbert, momentarily regaining his confidence. Then he paused. "Uh, that was a _yes_ , right?"

                Matthew laughed. "That was a yes," he confirmed.

                "Right. Cool."

                Instead of going into the flat, Matthew lingered in the doorway, waiting for Gilbert to say goodbye; waiting to be dismissed. It was weirdly arousing, Gilbert thought. He liked the subtle flirtation in the boy's coy smile, as if he was wordlessly saying: _Your move_ , _Gilbert._ He really liked being the one in control of their interactions (never-mind his helpless infatuation with the boy, whom he would literally leap off a rooftop to impress), and he liked that Matthew let him be in control without a fight. _I should probably be ashamed of myself_ , he thought, knowing without a doubt that he could bully Matthew into anything he wanted. He never would, of course, but nor could he deny that the power was tempting. He liked feeling like the strong one; the one who was needed. To distract himself, he surveyed the interior of the flat like the bodyguard he pretended to be. It was dark and quiet.

                "Thanks for today, Gil," Matthew said, drawing his attention. His pretty violet eyes looked expectant.

                _Now_ , he knew. _Now would be the time to ask him out for real._

                "Sure, my pleasure," he replied, swallowing. (Was it his imagination, or did the building suddenly feel like it was one-hundred degrees?) "So, uh... Matt?"

                "Yes?"

                "I—I'll see you tomorrow."

                Matthew's smile was small in disappointment. "Yeah, okay. See you tomorrow."

                _Coward_ , said Ludwig's voice as he retreated down the stairs. 

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Matthew closed the door, then leant his forehead dejectedly against it. _Why didn't he kiss me_?

                _What am I doing wrong_? he wondered, replaying the afternoon—the past month—in his head. It felt so good being with Gilbert. It was so easy, like reconnecting with a childhood friend. A very sweet, funny, handsome childhood friend who chased the bad things away, and whom Matthew really, really wanted to kiss.

                _Why didn't_ I _kiss_ him?

                  _Because I'm a bloody coward_ , he knew.

                Besides, you couldn't just grab a man you had been seeing for over a month and suddenly French him. That could ruin what he and Gilbert _did_ have, which was—friendship? He didn't even know.

                Lovino had once said (like some self-proclaimed expert): "If a guy doesn't at least try to kiss you within the first twenty-four hours, he's not interested. Move on."

                Matthew didn't want to move on, but if Gilbert _did_ want to kiss him, he would have done it by now—right?

                _So_ , _why hasn't he_?

                Matthew looked in the mirror, wondering if there was something about himself the German didn't like. The bruises were gone and his fingers had healed without trouble; his face looked normal enough to him, at least. And the club patrons seemed to like his looks, but maybe that was the problem? Maybe Gilbert didn't want to be with someone who attracted such indecent attention from other men? Someone who flaunted his body in public and called it work. It wouldn't be the first time jealousy destroyed a relationship; Lovino's ex was proof of that. The thought should have frightened him—Lovino's ex certainly did—but imagining Gilbert in the powerful, dominant role encouraged rather different feelings within him. Maybe it was because he knew Gilbert would never actually hurt him, but the idea of the German wanting him—choosing him, possessing him, claiming him so that no one else could ever touch him—really excited him. There was something devilishly sexy about Gilbert that made Matthew want to be completely devoured by him. He loved how careful and considerate Gilbert was, but it only made him want to be manhandled all the more. He wished Gilbert would throw caution to the wind and become the wolf Matthew wanted him to be. He wished the stupid German would just shove him against the wall and kiss him already! He wanted so badly to be held and kissed and touched by those strong hands that were always gentle, afraid of hurting the boy he was obliviously driving mad. Every time Gilbert ruffled his hair, Matthew wanted to scream in frustration.

                But Lovino was right. If Gilbert _did_ desire him as more than a friend, he would have done something by now.

                _Having friends is nice too_ , _I guess_...

                Matthew sighed in defeat. " _Gilbert_ , _you idiot._ "

* * *

**GILBERT**

Gilbert hurried back to his car, bailing like a coward; thinking of all the reasons why dating Matthew was a bad idea:

                Gilbert was twenty-seven (nearly twenty-eight); Matthew was nineteen. Gilbert lived on the upper-west side; Matthew did not. Gilbert was a detective; Matthew was a victim. There was a huge power imbalance between them, a huge class divide, and a huge possibility that his family would disapprove of them being together. (Gilbert had always fancied himself a rebel, but in actuality he cared more about their father's approval than Ludwig did.) And then, of course, there was Gilbert's crippling fear of rejection from _anyone_. The fear that he might not be good enough—might not be the best at something—stung him deep. And even if Matthew did say yes, could Gilbert really make him happy? Reflecting on it, why would the sweetest, prettiest boy in the world choose _him_?

                _Because you're a good man_ , said Francis' kind voice in his head.

                _A hot man_ , said Antonio's cheekily.

                Gilbert sighed— _goddamn it_ —and hesitantly faced his reflection in the car's window. He wished he could see what Francis and Antonio saw when they called him _handsome_ , but it was a wasted wish. Gilbert had spent his whole life trying to divert attention from his looks, trying instead to be the cool guy, or the daring guy, or the clever guy if he couldn't be the good-looking guy. His brother, his cousins—they were the good-looking ones in the family. Gilbert was the friendly one, the funny one, the _other_ one. He was the one who said: " _My little brother is a really great guy_ , _you should totally go talk to him_." And: " _Antonio_? _Oh sure_ , _but open with a joke. You'll get farther with humour than seduction with him_." And: " _Yes_ , _definitely give Francis your phone-number. You won't regret it_ , _I promise_." Gilbert Beilschmidt was a good brother, and a good friend, and a good detective, but he had no history to confirm whether or not he would be a good boyfriend and that's what made him nervous.

                "Seriously, Gil?" Francis had said. "You're the best detective on the force. I've seen you break drug-lords and fearlessly charge into burning buildings, but it's _asking someone out_ that you're afraid of?"

                " _Pft_ , no..." Gilbert had replied, fooling no one.

                "Oh, for the love of all that is good and pure, just do it already!" Antonio moaned, throwing his hands up in dramatic surrender. His wheeled desk-chair spun. "We all know Matt's going to say yes."

                Gilbert rolled his eyes. "What makes you think that?"

                Antonio glanced helplessly at Francis, as if to say: _Do I really have to spell it out for him_? Francis nodded. " _Because_ ," he said fervently to Gilbert, "that boy has the biggest crush on you I've ever seen. His whole face lights up when he sees you. It's super cute. He's not going to say no, Gil."

                "You know, I didn't _ask_ for your opinions," said Gilbert, feeling flustered by his friends' well-meaning attack.

                "We know. We give them free of charge," Antonio smiled.

                "Because we love you," Francis added.

                Gilbert deliberately went home for lunch that day, which had been a fortnight ago now. He had spent nearly every day with Matthew since then, but he could never bring himself to act. He knew it was easy—all he had to do was reach out and take Matthew's hand, smile at him, kiss him—but the moment the thought entered his head his courage would flee and he would console himself by thinking: _Not yet_ , _it's not the right time. Not the right place. But soon_ , _I'll ask him soon_. _Maybe next time..._

                _It's next time_ , said his friends' voices now. _If you don't do it now_ , _then you'll lose your chance_ —that's what Matthew's disappointed smile had said, too. _You're the bravest person we know_ , _Gil. Ready or not_ , _it's time to jump._

Gilbert took a deep breath, then let it out with a curse:

                " _Fuck it_ ," he said, and turned on his heel. He jogged back inside, taking the stairs two at a time, afraid that he would lose his nerve if he slowed.

                _Fix your hair_ , said Francis.

                _And smile_! said Antonio.

                His heart was pounding as he rapped his fist on the door. It felt like forever before a very surprised Matthew opened it, but when he did, Gilbert didn't hesitate. He didn't doubt or freeze or try to talk; he didn't even think, which was for the best. He took the boy's face in his hands and kissed him.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Matthew gasped in shock. His first thought was: _What's happening_?

                There was no second thought.

                Instinctively, his eyes fluttered closed as he reached up and wrapped his arms around Gilbert's neck, pulling him closer to kiss deeper. One hand held the German's bowed neck while the other coiled into his fine hair, grabbing a fistful and messing it as he guided him into the flat. Gilbert's hands slid down Matthew's torso. One slipped up under his shirt, resting on the small of his back; the other squeezed his hip. His weight forced the boy back, back, back until Matthew hit the wall. He lost his balance on Lovino's shoes, but his startled " _ah_!' quickly melted into a breathy moan, because Gilbert's hold had tightened in reflex when he caught him. Briefly their lips parted, then reconnected with animal hunger. Matthew thrust his slick tongue into Gilbert's hot mouth, clacking teeth and bumping noses like two overeager teenagers. Gilbert dropped his hands to Matthew's backside and lifted him right off his feet, pressing his sharp hips to the boy's pelvis. Matthew wrapped his long legs around Gilbert's waist, back braced against the wall, one hand still tangled in the German's silky hair as the other tugged fervently at his shirt-collar. He lowered his mouth to Gilbert's neck, but barely tasted the German's skin before—

                " _Ahem_."

                Lovino stood in his boxer-shorts, his arms crossed. He had a bemused look on his face.

                "Oh, hey, Lovino..." said Matthew, short of breath and wrapped promiscuously around Gilbert. "I, uh... didn't think anyone was home."

                "Uh huh, I can see that," said Lovino, not bothering to hide a grin. "I was sleeping."

                "Oh, sorry."

                "I should go," said Gilbert, setting Matthew down. His face was as red as his eyes.

                Lovino's eyes followed Gilbert's gait to the door, where the German suddenly stopped, as if he had forgotten something.

                "Hey, Matt?" he said, turning. "Want to be my boyfriend?"

                If Lovino weren't there, Matthew would have leapt joyfully into Gilbert's arms. Instead, he smiled and said: "Sure."

                "Cool. _Tschüss_ , _schatzi_ ," he said, and left.

                The moment the door closed, Matthew let out a happy, disbelieving gasp. (Had he been holding his breath?)

                Lovino said: "I'm breaking out the champagne."

                "We don't have champagne."

                "Then I'm giving you a fucking hug, because this is cause for celebration," Lovino teased, squeezing Matthew invasively. "I thought we'd all die of old age before that potato-bastard finally asked you. I owe Arthur twenty credits."

                Matthew laughed and shoved Lovino off. He was still smiling—he couldn't help it. "You and Art were betting on my love-life?"

                "Actually," said Lovino primly, "I was betting on your _lack_ of love-life. But I guess I was wrong. I mean, it certainly looked like you were making up for lost time. Like it rough, do you, Mattie?"

                "Oh, God." Matthew pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle an embarrassed gasp, though his eyes danced with giddy laughter. "Please don't tell Art."

                "Tell him what?" Lovino mused. "That you and Gilbert are officially a couple now—good luck, by the way— or that you like being thrown up against a wall?"

                " _Shut up_!"

                Lovino wolf-howled childishly, then dodged the pillow Matthew hurled at him. "It's _always_ the quiet ones!" he laughed.

* * *

**GILBERT**

Gilbert emptied his beer stein, wiped his mouth, and said: "Matt and I are going to the hockey game tomorrow night. Also, I asked him to be my boyfriend. He said yes."

                Francis and Antonio exchanged a theatrical look of mock-surprise, then tapped their steins together in what looked like relief more than celebration.

                "Thank God," said Francis.

                " _Finally_!" said Antonio. Then he fished a fifty-credit banknote out of his wallet and handed it to Francis.

                Gilbert frowned. "You bet _against_ me?"

                Antonio shrugged. "I bet those hockey tickets would expire before you had the chance to use them. How long have you had them stuffed in your wallet? Three weeks—?"

                Gilbert chucked a balled-up wrapper at him. "Shut up."

                Francis took the banknote from Antonio, then learnt in and kissed Gilbert's cheek. "I always had faith in you, _chéri_. In fact, I'm proud of you," he teased, patting his heart.

                "You guys suck."

                "Yeah, we do," Antonio grinned, plucking a French fry from Gilbert's plate. "And you will too now that you've got a boyfriend."

                Francis choked on his beer, which came out his nose.

                Gilbert scrubbed a hand over his (grinning) face. "I hate you both."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

**LATER**

I got screamed at in front of everyone for not— _oh_! _mm_ —coming at work last night. Can you— _ah_ —believe that?" asked Arthur, sitting with his legs splayed at the foot of the bed. Francis sat beside him, angled toward his lover's body as his hand rubbed up-and-down the Englishman's wet shaft. Arthur swallowed a groan and squeezed a handful of Francis' t-shirt. "It's not my f-fault if I d-do— _oh_! _—_ n't relish being pinned to the front of a fucking toilet tank while a gorilla has angry sex with m—m— _mm_ , _oh God_!" He clenched Francis as his hips jerked. " _Don't stop_ ," he begged, abandoning his criticism. " _Don't—don't—_

                " _Why did you stop_?" he whined when Francis pulled away.

                "Do you always play the submissive role?" he asked, ignoring the Englishman's pawing.

                "You tell me. You've watched all my videos," he said, distracted.

                Francis was quiet for a moment. Arthur wanted to break the silence—and somehow ask Francis to finish the hand-job without begging—but the Frenchman had a strange look on his face, pensive yet tender.

                "Do you want to do me?" he asked suddenly.

                Arthur was taken aback. He blinked, his mind preoccupied with the throbbing ache in his cock. "Do I—?"

                Francis slid closer, pressing his thigh snug to Arthur's, then leant in, nearly nose-to-nose. Gently, he brushed a short piece of hair off Arthur's forehead, and said: "You can do me this time, if you want."

                "You—want to bottom?"

                Francis' smile was sweet and seductive. "For you," he whispered, "yes."

                Arthur's heart palpitated in excited disbelief. "I've only done this a few times," he warned, gently pushing the Frenchman back.

                Francis yielded the remainder of his clothes as he rolled onto his front. His warm body was supple beneath Arthur's hands as he lubed them both in preparation. He thought the Frenchman would be defensively tight, but his muscles relaxed and flexed around Arthur's fingers and he gave a little purr of pleasure that sent a shiver down the Englishman's spine. "Tell me to stop," he said, pressing his weeping cock to Francis' entrance, "if it's not good. I don't want to hurt you."

                Francis' curly head was bowed, his shoulders arched in anticipation, so Arthur couldn't see his face, but his voice was a soft whisper:

                " _I trust you_ ," he said.

                Overcome with desire, Arthur pushed inside.

                He went in easy, and the pleasure that flooded him was immediate. He paused for a moment to savour the intoxicating feeling of being on top, of penetrating his partner; the feeling of Francis' beautiful, defenceless body laid out in front of him, pressed tantalizingly against him; of being engulfed in him, and yet in control of him; of not being pinned down to receive but buoyed up to give. And give, he did. He crawled atop Francis, anchoring his hands on the Frenchman's shoulders as he thrust eagerly into him. He buried his nose in Francis' bedraggled curls and moaned as the Frenchman's hips moved fluidly beneath him, rising to meet every eager thrust, taking Arthur deeper each time to increase the pressure and amplify the impact. It was not the clumsy jerks of an amateur, Arthur thought. Nor were Francis' moans the hollow theatrics of someone faking it to please his partner. His voice was breathy but even as his gasps came faster. Everything about him was rhythmic; Arthur had never noticed that before, too preoccupied with himself whenever Francis took him. But now that he was the one doing the taking, he was acutely aware of his lover's needs—his voice and scent and movements—and he wanted more than anything to give Francis unutterable pleasure, as Francis always gave him.

                Impulsively, Arthur pulled Francis' head back and kissed him. It was a breathy, open-mouthed kiss and their wet lips slid over each other, not quite finding purchase, but it felt right.

                It was then that Francis' beautiful blue eyes fell closed and he groaned, spilling his seed onto the bed-sheets.

                " _Je t'aime_ ," he gasped, collapsing onto his belly.

                Arthur rode his lover's decent and came inside of Francis, forgetting to ask if that was okay. Then he, too, fell onto the bed, gasping and spent.

                _I've never seen anyone so beautiful_ , he thought, facing Francis. He wanted to say it, with words and actions, but instead he said:

                "You've bottomed before."

                "Is it that obvious?"

                "No first-timer moves the way you do," Arthur said. "It's good," he added, touching his knuckles to Francis' sweaty shoulder. "Really good."

                Francis smiled and shifted so that he could hold Arthur around the middle. "Guilty," he teased, kissing the Englishman's chest.

                "You don't mind it?" Arthur asked, looping his arm around Francis. "Being the bottom, I mean."

                "No," said Francis, sighing in sleepy contentment. "I'm happy to accommodate whatever my partner wants. I bottomed when I lost my virginity. Toni prefers to top."

                Arthur had been rubbing Francis' back, but stopped abruptly in shock. "You lost your virginity to _Antonio_?"

                Francis chuckled, as if shock is what he had hoped for. "We lost our virginities to each other. We dated for a few months in high-school before realizing we were better as friends." In proof, he reached over Arthur, stretching his body, and grabbed his cell-phone from the bedside table. He scrolled for a moment, then showed Arthur a picture of two young teenagers. "Toni was the most beautiful boy in school," Francis smiled, tapping the screen where a dark-skinned boy with a cigarette behind his ringed ear was giving the middle-finger to the camera, his other arm wrapped around a slim, blue-eyed blonde who was playfully kissing his neck.

                "Oh my God," Arthur laughed in mock-horror. "Does he have an _earring_?"

                "Toni was the school rebel," said Francis fondly. "I was the student council president."

                "I bet you two made quite the scandalous pair."

                "Oh, we did." Francis smiled. "My foster-parents hated him. They thought he was going to corrupt me."

                "Did he?"

                "Of course not. Toni was the sweetest boy I'd ever met." Francis' lips curled into a smirk. " _I_ corrupted _him_."

                Arthur rolled his eyes, then looked back at the picture. Antonio _was_ a good-looking boy, but it was Francis who drew his attention. The immortalized youth still looked like Francis—same long-lashed eyes, same confident grin, same silky blonde curls—but a softer, less defined Francis whose effeminate beauty had no need for a razor just yet.

                "How old were you?" he asked.

                "In this picture? Fifteen," Francis replied. "It was a long time ago."

                Arthur nodded mutely, trying to remember if he had ever looked so blissfully happy at fifteen-years-old.

                To distract himself, he began swiping through all of Francis' pictures. There were a lot of he and Antonio at the beginning—sometimes in groups, sometimes alone—and a couple of staged shots with Francis perched between two people who must have been his adoring foster-parents. He was smiling in those, which was rather nice. (Arthur's experience with foster-care had been much less pleasant.) Finally, he came across a picture of Gilbert being kissed on both cheeks by Francis and Antonio, all three of them holding steins of dark beer.

                "Um, explain?" Arthur asked in amusement.

                Francis opened his eyes and laughed when he saw the happy picture. "That was Gil's birthday two years ago. He hates being photographed, but he was pretty pissed by then."

                Arthur smiled as he regarded the three detectives: Francis and Antonio stood with Gilbert squished between them, trapped, their lips playfully puckered against the German's flushed cheeks, and Gilbert who was either shouting or laughing; Arthur couldn't tell. At first the German looked like he was trying to push the other two away, but a closer inspection revealed his arms wrapped affectionately around them.

                "You really love them, don't you?" he asked quietly.

                "More than anyone in the world," Francis replied, unabashed. "They're my best friends."

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Despite Arthur's insistence that Francis needn't accompany him home, Francis did so anyway. He paid for a taxi-cab, then walked Arthur up to the flat, where he kissed him in the corridor, ignoring a neighbour's disapproving tut as he sidestepped the couple. Arthur pulled away fast, uncomfortable with the public display, but Francis wasn't bothered. He cupped the Englishman's face to redirect his attention. It baffled him how a porn actor who did so many shameless things on-screen could feel so self-conscious in the real world. The change between Arthur's private and public faces was instantaneous the moment they stepped out of Francis' door, and a man who had been calm and relaxed only a moment ago became tense in distrust and discomfort. It was sad, Francis thought as he tried to recapture the tender moment. He tried to resume the interrupted kiss, but—as expected—Arthur turned his back and escaped into the flat.

                "Are you ashamed to be seen with me?" Francis asked, following Arthur inside.

                Arthur whirled. "What? No, of course not! I—I just—" He lowered his eyes. "It's not you," he said, trying and failing to sound offhand.

                Francis watched the Englishman dally in the entranceway, removing his overcoat and gloves with meticulous care, trying too hard to appear casual. He didn't miss the way Arthur tried to hide the fact that one of his gloves had a hole in the finger, or the way he sucked in his bottom lip when he saw the messy kitchenette, embarrassed by the flat.

                "Would you like a cuppa tea?" he asked, avoiding eye-contact.

                Francis shook his head. "No, thank-you. I need to go. But before I do," he said, stepping deliberately into Arthur's path, "I'd like to invite you out tomorrow night. Someone gave me two tickets for a production at The Royal as a gift. Would you like to go?"

                "With you?" Arthur joked half-heartedly.

                Francis smiled demurely.

                "The Royal," Arthur repeated thoughtfully, circling around Francis to reach the kettle. "Those are expensive tickets."

                "Yes, they are. So it would be a shame to waste them."

                "Don't you have anyone else to go with?" asked Arthur, focused on filling the kettle.

                "Yes, but I want to go with you," said Francis honestly. "We've been seeing each other for over a month now, _chéri_. I'd like to take you on a _real_ date."

                Arthur stiffened at Francis' word-choice. A bit defensively, he said: "I'm the guy you're fucking, frog, not the guy you're dating."

                Francis ignored his tone and brazenly wrapped his arms around him from behind. "Why can't you be both?" he asked, pressing an appeasing kiss to the Englishman's neck.

                Arthur turned his head away, but Francis could see his expression in the microwave's reflection: his soft lips pursed tightly to prevent a smile. He took it as encouragement and continued.

                "Let's go out, _chéri_ ," he whispered. "It'll be fun. We'll see the show, then go for drinks, maybe out to a bar or club—? Come on, Arthur, let's not hide away in my bedroom all evening. You deserve a nice night out. Let me take you out. Not as an actor and a detective, but as a couple on a real date. Just for one night," he repeated enticingly, kissing Arthur's jaw. " _Just us_."

                Slowly, Arthur turned his head to meet Francis' smiling lips. "Okay," he agreed. "Just once."

                Francis was leaving when he came upon Lovino in the stairwell, who was returning home. The Italian barely acknowledged him, giving him only a mute head-bob in boredom as he passed. Francis started to speak, but noticed that Lovino had Antonio's headphones on, the music so loud that Francis could hear it.

                "Lovino," he tried again, yanking on the cord. The Italian looked annoyed for a moment, until Francis said: "I'm taking Arthur out tomorrow night. We're going to The Royal. Make sure he looks nice."

                Lovino didn't reply, but he popped the headphones back on with a sly grin.

* * *

**LOVINO**

Lovino waited until Arthur was in the shower, then snuck into his bedroom. Matthew was sleeping, wrapped up in his _boyfriend's_ leather jacket, so Lovino tip-toed as quietly as he could. He swiped Arthur's cell-phone from the bedside table and then scurried back across the flat to his own bedroom. He dove into a pile of blankets and pulled his knees to his chest. He keyed in Antonio's number, and wrote:

                HEY BABE! WANT TO COME TO MINE TOMORROW NIGHT?

                Antonio's reply was confused: ...ARTHUR?

                _Oh_ , _shit_!

                FUCK NO! IT'S LOVINO ON ART'S PHONE

            HOLA, LOVINITO!! :D ♥ ♥ ♥

            SO? MINE TOMORROW NIGHT? I'LL MAKE YOU SUPPER

            YES!!~ :D SHOULD I BRING DESSERT?

            JUST BRING YOURSELF

            THAT'S WHAT I SAID. ;)

                Lovino laughed to himself, pretending that he wasn't planning to take advantage of the empty flat tomorrow to seduce Antonio. They had been together for over a month— _a fucking month_!—but they hadn't had sex. It wasn't for lack of trying, but something always got in the way, usually his clumsy roommates. (Once, he and Antonio had been at the Spaniard's flat, and Arthur had _still_ managed to ruin the mood by calling in. " _I don't know where Matt is_!" Lovino fumed. " _Call the fucking German_ , _not me_! _Why did you give that hobgoblin your address_?" he accused Antonio after Arthur left. " _I didn't_ ," Antonio said through grit teeth, sprawled on the floor, " _Francis did_." Lovino snatched Antonio's cell-phone and dialed the Frenchman's number. Irrationally, he yelled: " _I fucking hate you_ , _frog_!" Needless to say, the mood was ruined.) Lovino almost felt too skeptical to hope, but if he and Antonio actually _did_ have sex tomorrow, he would send Francis and Gilbert gift baskets for keeping Arthur and Matthew away.

                YOU'RE A DORK, he texted Antonio fondly.

                YOU LOVE ME~ ♥ ♥ ♥

                Lovino waited, teasing his boyfriend.

                ...DON'T YOU? :'(

                Instead of typing a reply, Lovino blew a cheeky kiss into the camera and sent the picture. It was a shame that he had to delete the image Antonio sent in reply, but there was no way he would let Arthur keep it on his cell-phone.

                "Dork," he whispered to himself, blushing madly.

                I LOVE YOU, TONIO

            I LOVE YOU, LOVI

                Regretfully, Lovino deleted the text conversation, but he kept Antonio's sexy picture open. Then he locked his bedroom door, shimmied out of his boxer-shorts, and crawled back into bed wearing nothing but the arcade token on a chair looped around his neck.

                _Twenty-four hours_ , he thought, closing his eyes as he reached eagerly down. _Just twenty-four more hours_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fan-art for this chapter was kindly created by the very excellent and very talented, 78meg9. :D Please visit the link provided to see the BTT in all of their adorkable glory:  
> http://bad-friend-trios.tumblr.com/post/173264694709/you-really-love-them-dont-you-he-asked  
> Cheers!~


	9. Eight

**ARTHUR**

**SUNDAY**

Six-thousand credits," said Arthur, dropping a blank envelope onto Ivan's crowded desk. "Loan payments for this month and last. It's all there," he added, irked, yet knowing the loan-shark would count it despite his word. Even though Arthur had never before failed to pay the monthly debt he had inherited, first from his dead step-uncle, then from his dead aunt; even though he had proven himself an honest client; even though he had sacrificed his own comfort—food, heat, transit fare, even electricity once—to pay when money was scarce, Ivan regarded Arthur like he did every other penniless beggar who came to his door. Never-mind that Arthur had known Ivan for nearly a decade, since he was fifteen-years-old; that he was the Russian's oldest client; that he and Yao had watched the impoverished and orphaned cousins grow-up. Never-mind any of it, because Ivan Braginsky did not play favourites. He was a cold and calculating businessman, who would not be rushed as he meticulously counted the banknotes in the envelope. Arthur waited impatiently as Ivan referenced his accounts book, taking his time to record the numbers by hand—no digital files to hack—leaving the Englishman to wait anxiously with Yao at his side.

                "New hairpins?" Arthur asked, trying to mask his discomfort. He nodded to the Chinaman's head, where two glass hairpins secured the bulk of his hair in a bun, leaving the rest to hang down in a silky jet-black braid to his waist. Why, Arthur thought, did everyone—even criminal bodyguards—have beautiful hair, except for him? _Maybe I should grow mine long_ , _too_? So many of the most beautiful people he knew had long hair: Yao, Matthew, Francis...

                Yao's dark eyes revealed annoyance, but his expression remained impassive.

                Arthur had secretly been trying to guess the Chinaman's age for years. Sometimes Yao's regal, unlined face betrayed wisdom—experience—that weighted his youth; other times, he looked younger than Matthew.

                "You owe me interest," said Ivan, regaining Arthur's attention. He regarded Arthur with cold bemusement as he folded his large hands in front of him.

                "Yes," Arthur acknowledged, still angry about his own careless mistake.

                Ivan's smile curled into a teasing leer. "And how," he asked, standing and circling his desk, "do you intend to pay it?"

                Arthur felt Ivan's hand even before it touched his face; a chill ran down his spine. Ivan's caress was as gentle as a lover's, slowly dragging his fingers across the Englishman's jaw to his throat, down his neck to his clavicle, teasing the collar of his shirt. But Arthur didn't flinch. His gaze held a challenge as he reached into the pocket of his overcoat and removed a second, smaller envelope, which he dropped inelegantly onto Ivan's desk, never breaking eye-contact.

                "One-thousand credits in interest," he said evenly.

                Ivan withdrew his hand. "I hope you haven't sold an organ," he teased, still grinning.

                Both of them knew that Arthur had lived in fear of Ivan's interest rate—thirty-three percent—since he had inherited the debt.

                "No, I did not. Thank-you for your concern," Arthur said.

                Ivan's grin twitched. He liked teasing but hated being teased. "How then?" he asked. "Selling yourself would hardly fetch a thousand credits. Did you finally sell little Matvey?"

                Arthur's jaw clenched. _Don't you dare speak of him_ , he thought, feeling defensive. _Not after what you did to him_. _You're supposed to deal with me_ , _not him. We agreed that you would only deal with me_!

                "You have your money," he said tensely, fingernails biting his palms. "Why does it matter how I obtained it?"

* * *

**EARLIER**

_A thousand credits_?" Mikkel laughed. He leant over a billiards table, angling his body like a cat about to pounce, a cue resting on his knuckles. A moment later, half-a-dozen pool balls rolled across the baize with a crack. He righted his posture, his broad shoulders and biceps straining the fabric of a faded red band t-shirt, and faced Arthur. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" he asked, delighted by the Englishman's gall. "Did you hear that, Porsche? Lexus wants a one-thousand-credit loan!"

                Porsche was perched on the edge of the billiards table, swinging his legs childishly as he played a handheld video-game. The bubbly soundtrack was loud and distracting, and Arthur would have grabbed it and hurled it at the wall if he and the young Icelander had been alone.

                "Porsche?" Mikkel repeated, nudging his pet.

                In reflex, Porsche turned his head to press a habitual kiss to Mikkel's cheek, keeping one eye on his game.

                Mikkel rolled his eyes, but indulged the boy, who obviously hadn't been listening. The word _spoiled_ surfaced in Arthur's mind. _The perks of being a favourite_ , he thought in disgust—disgusted by how jealous he was of the boy's easy lifestyle.

                "Tell me," Mikkel continued, affectionately ruffling Porsche's hair; Porsche frowned, "what the fuck do you need a thousand credits for?"

                _It's none of your business_ , Arthur thought, but didn't dare say. It was one thing to challenge Ivan's authority, but Mikkel was too unpredictable and he liked playing games too much. The club had witnessed the Dane's temper on many occasions, which was as explosive as it was unprejudiced. Be it an underling or business partner, Mikkel didn't care. He liked to be provoked. _Give me a reason_ , his royal-blue eyes seemed to taunt. _Give me a reason to knock you down._ The only people safe from Mikkel's physical anger—as far as Arthur could tell—were Club 69's dancers and wait staff. It might have been chivalry, since the dancers and waiters were smaller and weaker than he; or maybe he didn't think violence was necessary, since a verbal threat worked just as well to frighten them—so many of them had already been broken by fear and abuse; or maybe it had something to do with Jaguar, who's whispered requests never went unheard by the impulsive Dane.

                Arthur watched Jaguar, now, as he floated across the floor. There was no other way to describe the way the Norwegian moved, like he was sleepwalking; like a pale-eyed fey stalking its prey, dangerous yet beautiful. Jaguar's penetrating gaze was the reason Arthur didn't lie to Mikkel.

                "I need the money to pay a debt," he revealed, making it sound like a single, isolated circumstance.

                "A debt?" Mikkel's eyes raked Arthur from head-to-toe, guessing at the sultry nature of the actor's debt.

                "Yes," he said, feeling angry and ashamed, but not correcting the misconception. If Mikkel wanted to think of _Lexus_ as an insatiable addict, then fine. Arthur would swallow his pride and let him think it, because Mikkel's opinion of him wasn't what mattered. The money was. The money is what he needed. Besides, the lie was safer than the truth.

                Mikkel leant on his pool cue and regarded Arthur with lazy indifference. Finally, he sighed in mock-pity, and started to say: "I'm afraid you're too risky a financial gamble—" but Jaguar interrupted.

                He slipped fluidly beneath the Dane's arm, looking like a mid-20th century film star with a mink coat draped over his shoulders. For a moment Arthur wondered if he was wearing anything under it before deciding that he would rather not know. Mikkel had odd taste, and the Norwegian was his favourite plaything. The luxury he showered upon Jaguar made spoiled Porsche look positively cute by comparison. Again, Arthur was seized by envy as he watched the Norwegian lean up and whisper into Mikkel's ear, not because he wished their positions were switched—he had no desire to be Mikkel's lover—but because of Jaguar's obvious influence over the powerful club owner.

                "—but I'm feeling generous," Mikkel changed his mind, grinning slyly as he pulled Jaguar snuggly against his side. "I'll lend you the money, Lexus, and I won't even charge you interest on the return."

                "Why?" Arthur asked before he could stop himself. He was looking at Jaguar, who's cold gaze unnerved him.

                "Because I'm _such_ a nice guy," Mikkel smiled, kissing his pet's head. "All I ask in return is that you remember this," he added, looking directly at Arthur. His tone changed, warning Arthur that he would repay the debt with more than money someday. "Remember," he repeated, fanning through a leather wallet swollen with banknotes, "just how generous I can be."

                Arthur nodded and mutely extended his hand.

                Mikkel paused, holding the loan out of reach. "Say it," he ordered. "Say you'll remember, _Arthur Kirkland_."

                "I'll remember your generosity," Arthur promised, closing his hand around the desperately needed money; the money that would spare his bones if not his pride. But it came at a price—more than a debt, more than a promise.

                The moment he accepted Mikkel's money, he ceased being Arthur Kirkland for real and finally became what he had managed to avoid for seven long years:

                Lexus, another slave indebted to Club 69.   

* * *

**IVAN**

**PRESENT**

Ivan considered Arthur for a minute, then ceded.

                "You're right. I don't care how you got the money," he smiled. "I only care about you, Arthur. I care about all of my clients' well-being, and whether or not they can continue making their monthly payments. It's illegal to leave a debt unpaid, you know. I'd hate to see you behind bars. So, let's not make a habit of missing payments, yes? Better for you. Better for little Matvey," he threatened, knowing it would fuel Arthur's ire. And loyalty. The Englishman would never risk his cousin's safety again. Violence, Ivan knew, was a better—faster—instructor than mercy. It's how he had been taught, too.

                Arthur nodded curtly and left.

                Ivan waited until the front doorbell signalled Arthur's departure before speaking:

                "I know what you're going to say—"

                "Too little too late," Yao interrupted, turning his back.

                Ivan sighed, reading more than meager disappointment in his bodyguard's—his lover's—tense posture. "I'm doing everything I can," he promised.

                "Do more," was Yao's cold reply.

                "I would if I could, _solnyshko_ ," he said, gently placing his hands on Yao's shoulders, which were arched like a cat's. He leant down to kiss the Chinaman's cheek, but Yao turned his face away, so Ivan's lips dipped to his slender neck instead. "He won't fail to pay again," he said in appeasement. "Not after what we did to Matvey—"

                Yao's hand flew up and slapped Ivan away. "Yong Soo is gone!" he spat                , losing his temper. It was testament to his frustration, for Yao rarely lost self-control. He whirled and faced Ivan, unafraid of the size difference between them; that the top of his head barely cleared Ivan's shoulder. His brown eyes blazed with anger, grief, and fear. "We nearly had him. We could have bought his freedom, but we were short— _three-thousand credits_ short," he emphasized darkly. "Now he's gone. I spent _years_ trying to find him and now my little brother is _gone_!"

                Impulsively, Yao gabbed the closest thing to him—a jade paperweight—and hurled it at the wall, causing the drywall to crack.

                "We found Li..." Ivan began, but he stopped when Yao covered his face with a slender hand. His whole frame shuddered.

                Ivan wanted to comfort his distraught lover, but the words got stuck in his throat, choked by guilt. It was just as well, though. Empty words would not soothe Yao; the facts were what mattered to him. And the fact was, Ivan had had the opportunity to buy Yong Soo's freedom from slavery, and he had failed. He couldn't blame Yao for being upset with him, even if it was just bad-luck. _You chose a hell of a month to pay late_ , _Kirkland_ , he thought bitterly. Now, he would be lucky to get eye-contact from Yao let alone sex. Not that Ivan didn't sympathise with his lover's predicament. Yao might have escaped the slave traffickers who had abducted him as a child, but his siblings had not, which is why he had spent the last twenty years searching for them; and why Ivan's business had become steeped in illegal activity, all to get the money needed to buy Yao's siblings' freedom. But it was difficult to find children who were no longer children; teenagers, now, with no names or addresses; who were nothing but slaves in an underground trade that was operated with maximum stealth. In twenty years they had only managed to liberate one sibling.

                _One down_ , _five more to go_ , Ivan thought, feeling the weight of responsibility. And disappointment.

                Yong Soo had been so close, just three-thousand credits out-of-reach.

                Ivan knew that a simple " _I'm sorry_ " would never suffice.

                "I'll do better next time," he swore instead, gathering Yao into his arms.

                The tender embrace seemed to break Yao's defense and he crumbled, letting Ivan take his full weight. It was a rare thing, but Ivan loved when he could hold Yao like this. Private. Intimate. He liked being able to lend comfort to his lover in moments of vulnerability, as if their positions had been switched and it was he who needed to protect Yao, instead of Yao always taking care of him. He liked being needed.

                "I'll find them, all of them," he promised, rubbing Yao's back. Yao grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and buried his face. The hairpins he had given Yao winked like crystals in sunlight. "I won't let anything happen to them. Or to you."

                Yao tipped his head up, chin resting on Ivan's chest. His eyes looked big and wounded, but no longer unkind. "It's my job to protect you, not the opposite," he said in apology.

                Ivan smiled. "And I trust you with my life, _solnyshko_."

                Yao cupped Ivan's face and stood up on his toes; Ivan bowed his head to meet his lips for a feather-soft kiss.

                "Trust _me_ ," said the Russian. "I will find and liberate your siblings, _lyubov moya_. I will not see you suffer anymore. If I have to wring Arthur Kirkland for every credit he has—if I have to break every bone in his body—I will."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

**LATER**

Arthur grimaced at his backside in the mirror, hidden before in trousers that fit him perfectly well before Lovino had taken a needle to the seams; now, they were so tight that the shape of his buttocks was on wanton display.

                "Leave something to the imagination, would you?" he complained, shifting edgily from foot-to-foot and then flinching from a pin-prick.

                "Hold still," Lovino mumbled around the pins in his mouth, dark fabric pinched between his deft fingers.

                The Italian rarely concentrated on anything so intently, but tailoring was one of his great talents and he took it seriously. He was good at it. He may have been a gifted dancer, but it was something he didn't need to think about; it came naturally, much to his roommates' incredulity. But Lovino never looked more professional than when he was tailoring someone's appearance, using his friends like human canvases for his favourite art. And art, it was. He had an unrivalled eye for fashion that would not be disputed. If Lovino told you that you looked good in something, there was no use arguing with him; he wouldn't listen, and you'd be a fool not to take his advice. Arthur knew this, and secretly trusted Lovino's taste, but he still felt unlike himself when he looked in the mirror.

                "Stop clenching," Lovino said, annoyed. He removed the pins and straightened the Englishman's waist. "And don't be such a prude. You should be thanking me, I just gave you a figure."

                "I already had a figure," Arthur argued, trying to tug down his shirt. "It just wasn't on display before."

                Lovino rolled his eyes. "What are you so afraid of? That someone might actually see you as something sexy in _real life_? You've got a great ass, Art"—he slapped him playfully—"show it off."

                Arthur jumped in surprise, going red, but was saved from replying when Matthew appeared, dressed in blue-jeans and a hockey jersey over a long-sleeve t-shirt.

                Lovino shook his head. "I can't even look at you right now."

                Matthew shrugged. "I'm going to a hockey game," he said, grabbing a pair of gloves; searching for the ones with the least amount of holes. "Believe it or not, I'm actually wearing the appropriate attire for once."

                "I officially hate hockey," Lovino deadpanned. "At least put on jeans without tears in them," he insisted.

                "I thought tears were in fashion?" Matthew asked without looking up.

                Arthur privately chuckled at the despairing look on Lovino's face.

                "Tears in _designer_ jeans!" he corrected. "Jeans that look new, that say _style_! not _I-lost-a-fight-with-a-chain-link-fence_ , which is what yours say."

                Again, Matthew shrugged. He headed for the door, but reflexively caught a bottle that Lovino suddenly threw at him.

                "At least fix your hair," he begged. "It's still a date, Matt. Technically, it's your and Gil's _first_ date. You want him to think you look nice, don't you?"

                " _Pft_ , he could grow horns and a tail and Gilbert would still think he looked nice," Arthur dismissed.

                "Just use it," Lovino pointed to the bottle, ignoring Arthur. "It'll only take a minute and it'll make your curls even softer. It'll make them bounce."

                Matthew read the label, then looked suspiciously at Lovino's relatively straight hair. "Where did you get it?"

                "I saw it at Francis' place when Toni and I were there."

                "You _stole_ it from Francis?" Matthew gaped, dismissing the possibility that Lovino had legally purchased the same product for himself.

                "What? No... I don't do that..." Lovino said with shifty eyes that proved he did. "Oh, it's fine!" he huffed when the Canadian stared at him, horrified. "He won't care, Matt. He'd probably have given it to you if you'd asked."

                "But I didn't—"

                "Just use it," Lovino interrupted. "You and Francis have the same curly hair and his always looks good."

                Arthur gasped and pressed a hand theatrically to his heart, pretending to be scandalized. "Did you just pay _Francis_ _Bonnefoi_ a _compliment_?"

                "Fuck off," said Lovino, already squeezing a dollop of product into Matthew's hand.

                Matthew sighed in resignation and quickly fluffed the product through his curls, then grabbed his wallet—his fake I.D.—and hurried out the door.

                " _Where's your coat_?" Arthur hollered after him, but Matthew's dismissive reply went unheard, as he was already leaping down the stairs.

                Lovino rolled his eyes. "Stop mothering him, Art. He's not a fucking duckling."

                Arthur bristled as he re-buttoned the shirt Lovino had lent to him. "It's December," he argued pragmatically. "And Matthew notoriously fails to plan for the weather. He refuses to acknowledge that it's cold outside."

                "I honestly don't think he even feels it. But come on, you don't think Gilbert will keep him warm—?" Lovino asked, mock-innocent.

                Arthur threw a glare at him.

                "Oh, lighten up!" Lovino huffed. "You've been tense all day, Art. Do you not want to go out with Francis?" he asked, his tone softening into a query.

                "Of course I do," Arthur replied too fast.

                "Are you sure?" The laughter had fled Lovino's face, leaving suspicion—maybe pity. "Preparing for a date is supposed to be fun. It's supposed to make you nervous in a good way. You're supposed to look happy about it, Art, not like you're about to throw-up."

                "Thank-you, Lovino," Arthur snapped curtly, "but I really don't need your advice. I _have_ dated before."

                Lovino stared at Arthur's back for a moment—Arthur could see his reflection—then surrendered his hands in defeat. "Fine," he said defensively. "I was only trying to help. _Have fun_."

                Arthur's stomach twisted when Lovino's bedroom door closed—more forcefully than necessary. He stared at his pale, freckled face in the mirror, and silently asked: _Why do you do that_ , _Arthur_? _Why do you push people away_?

                The truth was, Lovino was right. A part of him really _did_ feel like he was going to vomit, and he was afraid he knew the reason why.

                _He's right_ , he knew, feeling ashamed of himself. _This isn't how you're supposed to feel before a date._

                Not like Matthew, who was excited to see Gilbert again, his eyes reflecting an infatuated heart full of hope.

                Or Lovino, who was practically vibrating with the anticipation of seeing Antonio, and hiding it just barely better than the impatient teenager.

                _So_ , _why not me_? _Why can't I feel that same happiness—that confidence—knowing that I'll be with Francis_?

                He liked Francis, he really did. He felt connected to Francis in a way he never had before, not just because of the sex, but on a personal level, too. He trusted Francis.

                But trust was dangerous when every day was a fight to survive, and love was a distraction he couldn't afford.

                _Wait—love_?

                Arthur shook the unwanted thought from his head and straightened his cuffs.

                He smoothed down his trousers, which hugged his legs tight.

                He fussed over the state of his defiant hair, nervous about the date, and frustrated with himself for being so.

                _I can't believe I'm doing this_ , he thought, fidgeting with his locks. _I swore to myself I'd never put effort into pleasing a man—not in real life—and now look at me_!

                Lovino had once said that putting effort into yourself showed your partner how much you cared about him. "It lets him know he's worth it," he had said.

                _Nonsense_ , Arthur thought, buttoning and re-buttoning his shirt. _We're going to The Royal_ —an invisible fist squeezed his heart— _they have a strict dress-code. That's all._

                Spontaneously, Arthur reached for the bottle Matthew had left, but the product only caused his hair to stand on-end. _Fuck_ , he cursed, hurrying to the kitchen sink to wash it out.

                It didn't matter if he used products or not, Arthur had always hated his hair, and had always envied Matthew his beautiful curls; curls he now saw on Francis whenever they met. He had always hated his figure, too—skinny and shapeless, and bony in places that shouldn't be—and had always wondered why an adult film director had approached him in the first place.

                "Because you've got the look I've been searching for, the kind of helplessness men can get-off on," he had said, which had done little for Arthur's fragile self-esteem. "But get rid of the freckles," he had ordered, without giving a reason aside from: "They make you look too young." ( _I_ am _young_! he had thought, only eighteen-years-old at the time.)

                His fingers itched to grab for the concealer, now, to hide the freckles he had been taught to hate, but Lovino had hidden it, telling Arthur he looked better without it. Well—almost. Lovino's exact words had been: "Stop it! You look like a fucking Tim Burton character with that crap caked on your face!"

                "Besides," he had added, calming down, "it's Arthur who's going out with Francis tonight, not Lexus."

                _Arthur_ , he thought, staring at himself as the clock ticked down the minutes until Francis arrived.

                Did he look okay? Had Lovino's craft disguised his flaws? Would Francis think he was trying too hard?

                It had been a long time since anyone had wanted _Arthur_. _Lexus_ had been his shield for six years.

                _I really do feel like I'm going to be sick_ , he worried, thinking he might feel better if he just forced himself to vomit. But he never got the chance.

                Francis arrived right on time, dressed in a smartly-cut suit that accentuated his height, and holding a long-stem red rose in his hand. " _Bonjour_ , _chéri_ ," he said in greeting.

                And just like that, Arthur's anxiety settled. The Frenchman's unassuming nature and easy smile relaxed him. His body-language was open, but not intimidating; and his hands didn't grab or grope when he offered the gift. Arthur accepted the rose mutely as his eyes abashedly lingered on his kind, handsome date. _He's so gorgeous_ , he thought, privately reflecting upon the intimacy they had shared; the look and feel and taste of Francis' beautiful body, and the sweet honesty of his worshipful words. A single glance from Francis Bonnefoi could make you feel like you were the most precious thing in the world—or, that's how he made Arthur feel, anyway. If it was a role he was playing, it was a good one; one Arthur would gladly stay lost in if he could. But he didn't think it was. Since their introduction, Francis had never lied to him, never cheated him, and never hurt him, and something told Arthur he never would. Despite his talent for role-playing, the Frenchman's eyes were trustworthy.

                And that was the difference between them: _You may promise never to hurt me_ , _Francis_ , _but I can't promise never to hurt you._

                Those blue eyes sparked, now, as they roved over Arthur's figure; not with greed or lust, but in pleasure, as if the Englishman was something truly lovely to look upon. It made Arthur's heart flutter.

                When their eyes finally met again—each one having indulged himself in the other—Francis merely shook his head as if he couldn't believe his good-fortune. "You really are beautiful, Arthur," he said easily, like a couple who had been together forever; as if his statement was simply fact, "but tonight you look especially so."

                Arthur felt himself blush as he reached for Francis' offered hand. "Thank-you," he said politely, breaking eye-contact lest he lose himself in those blue eyes. "You look very nice, as well. Shall we go?"

                He started down the corridor, but stopped when Francis didn't move; the tether of their connected hands holding him back. Curious, he turned and found the Frenchman's gaze appreciating the subtle curve of his backside, a less innocent curl to his lips.

                " _If you're finished_ ," Arthur said, piercing Francis with a look of mock-disapproval.

                Francis chuckled and pulled Arthur back against his chest, his free hand dropping to cup Arthur's buttocks. " _I'll never be finished with you_ ," he whispered, then kissed Arthur's lips.

                The words were a tease, but Arthur felt them in his heart. The touch was a jest, but there was more affection than want in Francis' hand. When their lips parted, their gazes lingered for a moment, and Arthur realized that he was looking into the eyes of a man he could easily love—if only he would let himself fall.

                "Come on," he said, stepping back; stepping out of temptation's reach. "We don't want to be late."

* * *

**LOVINO**

Antonio rapped jauntily on the door and it swung open, surprising him. He lifted an eyebrow at Lovino. "Still haven't gotten this door fixed, huh?"

                Lovino shrugged. He was standing at the stovetop, stirring tomato sauce.

                Antonio kicked off his shoes, tossed his coat over the back of a chair, and wrapped his arms around Lovino from behind. " _Hola_ , _cariño_ ," he said, kissing the Italian's cheek. Lovino smiled and turned his head, kissing Antonio properly, their noses brushing and faces lingering close together after their lips parted. "Everything smells delicious," Antonio praised, playfully burying his nose behind Lovino's ear, implying the Italian's inclusion.

                Lovino laughed and lowered the stovetop to a simmer. Then he stepped out of Antonio's arms, pretending to survey the set table, but secretly wanting to survey Antonio. He was dressed casually today in blue-jeans, a t-shirt, and a simple, cosy cardigan. On anyone else it would have looked domestic, an outfit that screamed _movie-night_ not _date-night_ , but on Antonio it looked good. Everything did. The man oozed effortless sex-appeal. _And it's all because of that smile_ , Lovino thought, smitten. _It's definitely his best feature_.

                He felt a pull in his heart as he stared at Antonio, who was leaning casually against the counter, his hands in his pockets, his legs crossed at the ankles. He looked like a lazy college student, and yet— _That smile_. When Antonio realized he was being ogled, his lips turned impishly up at the corners and his green eyes twinkled seductively. Lovino felt that look; first in his stomach, then in his groin.

                "So, _Chef_ ," Antonio teased, sauntering over. "What's on the menu?"

                "Pizza margherita."

                "Oh yeah?" Antonio rested his hands on Lovino's hips. "With San Marzano tomatoes?" he asked, kissing the Italian's neck.

                "Obviously," Lovino said, trying—and failing—to sound blasé. His heart was pounding.

                "And mozzarella cheese?" the Spaniard murmured, sucking Lovino's collarbone and slipping his warm hands up under his shirt.

                "Yes."

                "And basil?"

                " _Mm hmm_..."

                " _And extra-virgin olive oil_?" Antonio purred, somehow making an ordinary cooking lubricant sound like something pornographic.

                " _Lovinito_?" he queried, pushing his leg snugly between Lovino's.

                "Y-yes," Lovino gasped, clutching Antonio. " _Yes._ "

                He opened his eyes—when had he closed them?—and saw Antonio staring down at him. He looked hungry, but not for food.

                "Sounds good," he said, gently brushing noses with Lovino, his lips parted. "But you know what really works up my appetite?"

                Lovino couldn't help the bubble of laugher that escaped him. "You really need to work on your pick-up lines, Green Eyes. They're so bad," he said, wrapping his arms around the Spaniard's neck.

                "Oh—?" Antonio pouted, but it didn't last. His lips—those full, soft, smiling lips—revealed a challenge. "Then what does that say about you?"

                Antonio's hands dropped to Lovino's upper-thighs and lifted him off his feet. "Come on, what do you say to a little _appetizer_?"

                Lovino snorted. "I thought you were dessert?"

                Antonio wiggled his eyebrows. "I'm everything, _cariño_."

* * *

**ANTONIO**

Lovino had Antonio half-undressed by the time they reached the Italian's tiny bedroom. It was the first time Antonio had ever been in Lovino's room, but he didn't pause to survey it, too preoccupied by his boyfriend's exploratory hands.

                He loved Lovino's artful hands, soft and delicate and greedy. He loved the fragile strength in them, and the way they clutched him when the Italian was afraid, seeking the Spaniard's protection. Antonio liked it because it was instinctive, a sign that Lovino felt safe with him, he trusted him. He loved the tenderness in Lovino's hands when they held him, massaging his skin or combing through his hair, whispering an intimacy the Spaniard had never felt before. And he loved the playful seduction of Lovino's hands, the gentle touches that teased his basest desires; the way the Italian squeezed him, and stroked him...

                " _Ah_ ," Antonio groaned, bowing his head to Lovino's shoulder.

                "What's wrong, Tonio?" Lovino grinned wickedly. He rubbed the back of Antonio's neck with one hand, and squeezed his cock with the other, his delicate hand buried to the wrist inside Antonio's boxers. "All out of lines, baby?"

                Antonio nipped Lovino in reply, tugging his shirt off his shoulders.

                They fell onto the bed together; Antonio sitting on the edge, and Lovino sitting on Antonio. _He's so beautiful_ , Antonio thought, admiring the Italian's modelesque figure as he stretched his arms overhead, angled to let Antonio pull off his shirt. Then he arched forward, resting his weight on Antonio's upper-body while the Spaniard slid each slender leg out of his trousers. He wasn't wearing anything underneath and his skin glowed soft in the bedroom light, a cocoa colour bereft of tan-lines; perfect except for a pale scar on his hipbone. Antonio's mouth practically watered at the sight of his boyfriend's naked body: narrow hips that dipped gently into the curve of his backside, which Antonio had seen many times on-stage, but had never touched skin-to-skin; and the length of his cock, stiffening with desire. _So beautiful_ , he thought, knowing the sight would never fail to arouse him.

                Antonio had seen Lovino nude before—all the club patrons had—but here, in the Italian's small, windowless bedroom, the sight was different. It was a safe, intimate space; a private place for a private act that wasn't a show. The club was a tease, but Lovino's bedroom was not. The dancer may have entertained countless men out there in the club, but Antonio got the feeling he did not entertain them in here. The apprehension in Lovino's golden eyes told him as much. It told him that this was different, something that Lovino hadn't done in a long time, and it was scaring him despite his desire, because it really _meant_ something to him.

                _It means something to me_ , _too_ , Antonio thought, privileged to share the intimate experience. _That you trust me like this means more than you could ever know_.

                " _Lovino_ ," he whispered, kissing the Italian passionately, " _you're so beautiful_."

                Lovino purred in reply and shifted closer so that Antonio's liberated cock touched his. Then he took both in his hand.

                _I love you_ , Antonio thought, his mind going foggy with lust. He lifted Lovino up enough to plunge his fingers inside of him, encouraged by the Italian's soft mewl: half-gasp and half-sigh. A flood of possessiveness surged through him then, making his heart race faster with carnal greed. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears; he could feel it hardening his cock. His hands squeezed Lovino, petting him, groping him. He wanted the man so badly. He wanted to take him and mark him like a beast, some primal part of him wanting to claim Lovino as his so no one else could ever have him. _Mine_ , growled that animal instinct; that aggressive voice that urged lust and violence.

                _God_ , _I love you so much_ , he thought, laying Lovino down on the bed and crawling eagerly over him. _I never want to be without you. I never want to let you go_.

                "Tonio?" said Lovino.

                He looked ravaged already, his hair tousled, his skin flushed, his lips swollen—but his eyes were focused and big with fright.

                It broke the possessive spell and pulled Antonio back to the surface of self-awareness. He blinked and looked down at Lovino, who was staring meekly up at him.

"Tonio... don't hit me, okay?"

                And just like that, the hunt ended. Antonio was himself again, staring down at his beautiful boyfriend with a mix of shock and shame on his face.

                "Oh, Lovi..." he said as guilt replaced lust. "I... I would never hit you. I..." He sat up, distancing himself from Lovino, removing his hands. "I'm so sorry you think I would..."

                "No, it's not that." Lovino sat up, too. He reached out to touch Antonio's hand. "I'm not accusing you, Toni. I just... I know that some guys like to play those kind of games, and you... well, you strike me as one of them. And that's fine," he added, trying to be non-judgemental. "It's just... I don't, okay? I don't like those games."

                Antonio squeezed Lovino's hand. "I scared you, before..."

                "No," Lovino lied, shaking his head too ardently in overcompensation. "It's not you, Toni. It was never you. It's just that I..." He paused, pursing his lips. "It's not you, okay?"

                Antonio saw the fear in Lovino's gold eyes and it cut him. The Italian was trying to be strong, trying to forget something that obviously frightened him, something that had left a—literal—scar.

                "Who's SA?" he asked, cautiously touching the scarred initials on Lovino's hip; not entirely certain he wanted to know.

                As expected, Lovino shivered. "It's nothing—" he started, but Antonio shook his head.

                "He's not nothing," he guessed, trying to keep the fury out of his voice. "He was something. A big something. And he hurt you."

                Lovino was quiet for what felt like a long time, his gaze downcast as he struggled to find the right words. But Antonio exercised patience. He lifted the bed-sheet and draped it over Lovino, so the Italian wouldn't feel so exposed. Then he sat back and waited.

                "My ex-boyfriend," Lovino said slowly, hugging the sheet to himself, "liked to play games like that. He liked to tie me up, and hit me, and use toys to..."

                "Did you tell him you didn't like it?" Antonio asked. "Did you ask him to stop?"

                Lovino pierced him with a defensive look. "What do you think I am? Of course I did."

                "Then why didn't you leave?"

                Lovino pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them. "I don't know," he said, looking away. "Because I was too proud and stupid to admit I was wrong?

                "I was in University when I met Sadik. I used to go to the art school uptown. One day I saw him on the street, and he was handsome and funny and charming and when he smiled at me I smiled back..." He shrugged, though his body-language was tense. "My parents despised him. They thought he was a worthless nobody, which, of course, only made me more attracted to him. I started to spend a lot of time away from home, away from school. I failed classes and rowed with my family. Sadik dragged me into a lot of trouble... and I let him."

                "That doesn't sound like you," Antonio said honestly. Lovino had a catty tongue and a passionate temper, but he was not what society would call _a bad kid_.

                "It wasn't me," Lovino admitted, "but I wanted it to be, because that's what Sadik wanted. He wanted to be with someone just as wild as he was, to have an ally in his fight against the world.

                "I dropped-out of school in my second year and spent a lot of money on things I shouldn't have. I _did_ a lot of things I wish I hadn't. I... I had to have my little brother bail me out of jail once. He promised not to tell my parents, but..." Lovino shook his head, trying to shake the tears from his eyes, "I felt so ashamed of myself. I never wanted Feli to see me like that. It wasn't my proudest moment," he understated. "Eventually my father gave me an ultimatum: I had to break-up with Sadik and promise never to see him again, or be disowned."

                Antonio felt that sad word— _disowned_ —in his heart. "You left," he said; a statement, not a question.

                Lovino nodded. A tear rolled down his cheek.

                "I packed my bags and I left my family and I haven't been back since."

                "That's how you ended up here?"

                Lovino sighed deeply, like he thought: _Might as well tell the whole story_.

                He didn't look at Antonio as he talked:

                "At first it was exciting slumming it like two rebels, but it wasn't so fun when the money ran out, and I had to pawn all my stuff just so we could eat. Sadik and I started fighting. God, we fought _all the time_. We screamed at each other so much the neighbours called the cops. He wanted me to get a job, so I did. I got a job at a night club—not Club 69, a different one—and he hated me for it. Actually, in retrospect, I think I did it just to spite him. That's how much our relationship had deteriorated. Then one night he hit me, and..." another tear fell, though this one went unnoticed, "...it was like something in him changed, like something woke up. I think all the drugs had fucked-up his head. He had an undiagnosed mental illness. It could've been treated—I'm sure of it—but he refused to acknowledge it, and all of the recreational drugs didn't help. He was paranoid and possessive and his moods could change in a heartbeat. He could go from happy to angry in the same breath. It was scary. Eventually nothing made him happy. I couldn't keep him happy. And it just kept getting worse."

                "So, what happened? What made you finally leave?" Antonio prompted.

                Lovino took a deep breath before answering.

                "He broke my arm," he said, almost casually, "so I left. I told him if he ever came near me again I'd testify in court and he'd go to prison."

                "Was there—?"

                "Evidence?" Lovino supplied. "Oh yeah, evidence aplenty. To be honest, I'd been collecting it for a while, just in case I needed a court order to help me escape him."

                Antonio frowned. He didn't like Lovino's word-chose: he used _escape_ when he could have simply said _leave_.

                "So, why didn't you use it?" he asked. "Why didn't you testify?"

                "I don't know. Because I'm stubborn?" Lovino asked rhetorically. He wiped his face, trying to put up a brave front as he spoke; trying to regain a shred of control. "I know it sounds stupid, but if my ex-boyfriend goes to prison, then my father was right."

                "Is that really such a bad thing?" Antonio asked gently.

                As someone who had lived in an overcrowded, underfunded orphanage until the age of sixteen—when they practically threw him out and told him never to come back—he couldn't imagine any disagreement being worth the loss of one's family, even if the price of reconciliation was pride. But Lovino's reply was definitive:

                "Yes," he said, without hesitance. "It would be bad. You don't know my father. He might let me come back home—if I begged—but he'd hold it against me for the rest of my life. It wouldn't matter what else I did in life. I could achieve sainthood and my father would still look at me in disdain. He would still talk about me like I was a jailbird on parole. He would never, _ever_ let me forget my mistake.

                "I don't want to live in Sadik's shadow like that," he said quietly. "That's why I can't go home."

                "But you hate it here," Antonio knew. (He didn't need Lovino to tell him; he knew.) "You hate your job, and your flat, and everything about your life—"

                "Art and Matt are okay."

                Antonio's face softened in sympathy. "Lovi," he said, retrieving Lovino's hand and kissing it, "you can't keep living like this, hating everything. It's not good for you. It's going to hurt you one day," he preached, revealing a pinch of personal experience. "You can't let the bad stuff eat away all the good."

                "I know," Lovino replied, his voice small.

                "Then what are you going to do?"

                Lovino's gold-flecked eyes swept the room, as if searching for the answer, before coming to rest on Antonio. Then his body relaxed with a hopeless sigh and he smiled.

                "Find a sexy Spaniard to take care of me—?"

                Antonio chuckled and kissed Lovino's knuckles, then his wrist. It wasn't an answer, but it tickled Antonio's heart nonetheless.

                He leant forward to kiss Lovino, but just as their lips touched, Lovino stiffened. Antonio pulled back quickly, afraid he had misjudged the situation; thinking that he had scared his boyfriend. _He just admitted to being sexually abused_ , _and you lurch forward to kiss him_? _Yeah_ , _good one_ , he berated himself _._ Then he saw the look on Lovino's face and realized that it was more quizzical than upset.

                "Do you..." He inhaled deeply. "Do you smell something burning?" he asked.

                The answer hit Antonio at the same time it did Lovino.

                The Italian leapt out of bed, wearing the bed-sheet like a toga, and dashed into the kitchen, yelling: "I left the fucking stove on! _Fuck_!"

                Laughing, Antonio followed him.

* * *

**GILBERT**

Did you see that play? It was perfect! And in overtime! I love when games go into overtime! I know that's kind of odd, but it's true. It gets so tense, so—climactic! It makes my heart pound, you know? And that final goal?" Matthew made an indefinable noise, something between a strangled peep and a groan. "That play was timed to perfection! Though, I wouldn't have minded it lasting longer. The more hockey, the better!"

                "You love it that much?" Gilbert asked, placing a hand on Matthew's back to guide his direction. They walked across the large parking-lot, caught in a teeming throng of aggressive ice-hockey enthusiasts, all of whom were talking about the results of the game, though none as animatedly as Matthew. Gilbert was afraid the boy would walk into a lamppost if not for his steering, such was his fixation with the sport. His violet eyes sparkled joyfully, for once not focused on the ground. "Do you even care who won tonight?" Gilbert asked, only half-joking.

                "No, not really," Matthew admitted. "I just love the game. I wish I still played."

                "Why don't you?" Gilbert asked, fishing his keys one-handed from his pocket. He had intentionally parked at the back of the lot to protect his car from angry fans and flying projectiles.

                "Hockey costs money." Matthew shrugged, but the gesture was weighty. "I don't have money."

                "Or the ability to shoplift," Gilbert teased. "That's why you stole ice-skates, wasn't it?"

                "I told you, I've done a lot of stupid things," Matthew confessed. "And I used to _think_ a lot of stupid things, too. Like, when I was a kid, I used to think that someone would see me playing one day, see how good I was, and want to pay me for it—draft me to play professionally. Stupid," he said, shaking his head.

                Gilbert didn't like Matthew's self-deprecating humour, which revealed the boy's lacking self-confidence, but he couldn't think of anything contrary to say. The mental-picture of a young, smiling Matthew tirelessly practicing his favourite sport in the hopes of achieving fame and fortune was—admittedly— _fucking adorable_. He, himself, had once harboured hopes of representing Germany in the World Cup someday, a dream fuelled by nothing but the unshakable optimism of childhood and the fact that he was the best footballer in his family. It was a little sad that something that had been so important to him back then was nothing more than a joke, now. He was about to say so to Matthew, but thought better of it when he saw the sad look on the boy's face; not nostalgia, but regret. _At least I had a chance at my dream_ , _foolish as it was_ , he thought, having playing football from ages four to eighteen. But Matthew had never even gotten to try.

                As Gilbert unlocked the Mercedes and opened the passenger's door for his date, he made a mental-note to take Matthew ice-skating on the canal when it froze.

                "Thank-you," Matthew said softly.

                At first, Gilbert thought he was referring to the German's act of chivalry—yes, holding and opening doors was his specialty (requiring no physical-contact)—but the boy's smile was too tender to be merely polite.

                "This was just... _perfect_ ," he elaborated, implying The Ice Garden. "Thank-you so much, Gil."

                Gilbert felt a—now familiar—flutter in his stomach. He smiled, and said: "You're welcome.

                "Where to?" he asked once they were both inside. His fingers drummed on the steering-wheel as he schemed how best to extend the date. It was only eleven o'clock. "Want to go for a drink?"

                "Or, we could go to that observation point you took me to on our first date—?" Matthew suggested. Shyly, but deliberately, he placed his hand over Gilbert's on the gearshift, then lifted his violet eyes to meet the German's reds; a seductive look steeped in sweet, angel innocence. "You've still got that blanket in the back, right?"

                For a moment, Gilbert stared at Matthew, dumbfounded, his head full of nothing but white-noise. Then his heart began to race.

                "Yeah," he said, squeezing Matthew's hand.

                Without breaking eye-contact, he started the engine and put the car into gear.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Arthur was washing his hands in the restroom when two young, tipsy men walked in.

                "Did you see the blonde?" the redhead asked the brunette, leering as he set down his champaign glass. "The one with the long hair and the _gorgeous_ blue eyes?"

                " _Oh_ , _yeah_ ," his friend replied approvingly. "A man like that one is hard to miss. He's probably a total player, though. Men like him always are."

                " _Mmm_ ," the redhead licked his lips. "I'd play with that."

                The brunette laughed and playfully shoved him. He shoved the redhead right into Arthur, who was trying to get around them to dry his hands.

                "Oh, sorry," said the redhead dismissively, as if he hadn't noticed Arthur until then. Then he faced the mirror and began preening like a cockatoo, readjusting his designer clothes.

                "Who do you think he's here with?" asked the brunette, fixing his fringe with a delicate, manicured hand. The bracelet on his wrist would have paid Ivan for three months. (Arthur knew, because he had nicked that brand before.)

                " _Pft_ , probably some rich model or big-shot actor," the redhead replied.

                _Well_ , Arthur considered in self-pity, _you're half-right_.

                The night had been going well, all things considered. The way Francis had taken Arthur's hand to assist him from the taxi-cab brought to mind a red-carpet debut, as did all the people who stared at them ( _at Francis_ , _not me_ , Arthur corrected). A pinch of trepidation had seized Arthur when he saw the resplendent theatre, the waiters and valets and well-dressed guests. He had feared being rejected as they reached the doors; afraid the ticket-taker would tell Francis he had brought an unsuitable date to the show, but—obviously—he didn't. They had been welcomed into The Royal as if they belonged, and it was all because of Francis.

                _He really does look like a gentleman_ , Arthur had thought, glad to be the Frenchman's date.

                Francis moved through the corridors as if he had been born to gilded furnishings and _Dom Perignon_ , not in an arrogant way, but in a blasé way that suggested he had seen it all before. He was a much better actor than Arthur, who couldn't help gaping at his surroundings, his eyes skirting from left-to-right in admiration, his brain working fast to calculate the cost of each item. _How much is that worth_? _How long could it feed us for_? he wondered, his fingers itching to slip secretly into pockets and handbags. _Matthew wouldn't have to be scared if we had this kind of wealth_. His mind repeated a pattern as they explored the theatre: awe, then admiration, then audacity. He looked at the other patrons with bitter jealousy, wondering why they should be so fortunate when he was not? What had they done to deserve this easy lifestyle when Arthur's family lived in poverty? _It's not fair_ , he thought, seeing boys Matthew's age looking sullen and bored, playing on devices instead of respecting the show—the luxury—they were being treated to. It churned Arthur's stomach knowing instinctively that they had never gone hungry or been hit. And then, of course, he felt guilty for thinking it, because no one should ever be hit.

                _We're all just products of our environments_ , he knew, forgiving the teenagers their ungratefulness. _They've been raised spoiled_ ; _they've never seen the dark side of life. And me_ —? Arthur was a spitting, snarling, spiteful street-urchin and he knew it.

                But he didn't _feel_ like it with Francis by his side.

                Francis, who proffered his arm to Arthur and held him closely as they strolled, waiting for the show to begin; who carried a conversation that was both engaging and entertaining and made Arthur laugh; who paid attention only to Arthur, despite the dozens of pretty boys milling about; who smiled at his green-eyed date as if there was nowhere else he would rather be.

                Being with Francis made Arthur feel good. It made him feel like he was actually worth something.

                Being alone in the restroom with two spoiled scions did not.

                As he dried his hands, he caught his reflection in the mirror. And he deflated. He had thought he looked okay before, but now he realized that all of Lovino's time and effort had been for nothing. He looked at the two rich uptown boys and knew he was kidding himself, pretending that he belonged here with them. He was nothing compared to them and he knew it. _They_ knew it, too, and they didn't give him a second-glance. Not until they exited the restroom after Arthur and gawked at the hand Francis placed on his waist. If their blatant disbelief wasn't telling enough, their judgemental eyes would have been. The redhead looked at the brunette, a sneer on his face that said: _What a waste_. And the brunette shrugged, like: _What can you do_? Then they pranced off to get more hors d'oeuvres, a confident set to their healthy bodies and an entitled spring in their two-thousand-credit shoes.

                "Arthur?" said Francis, smiling at him—only him. He offered his arm in escort, and added: "The intermission will be over soon. We should return to our seats."

                Mutely Arthur let Francis lead him back into the theatre, but his mind was not on the show. Suddenly, it felt like everyone was staring at him, wondering why a handsome, sophisticated gentleman like Francis was humouring a charity case like Arthur; wondering what he was paying for the Englishman's sultry company, and thinking that it was probably a bargain compared to the high-class escorts the city employed. He could practically hear the rich business tycoons teasing Francis: _Slumming it tonight_ , _friend_? _Does he do things the real escorts won't_? _Did you fuck him like a dog during the intermission_? _I bet you have to provide your own condoms and everything_ , _ha ha_!

                Arthur knew it wasn't true, that no one—or, few of them anyway—was really looking at him that way; that no one cared about him enough to judge, but he couldn't silence the voice in his head that said: _You shouldn't be here_. He tried to concentrate on the actors, the orchestra, and the hand Francis rested on his knee, but he couldn't shake the poisonous feeling of crushing inadequacy.

                _Who am I kidding_? he thought, looking around as the bright houselights flooded the audience and the hall thundered with applause. He felt small beneath it all, like the sound itself was beating him down. His body tensed, his shoulders arched, and his head ducked as his gaze darted anxiously, surveying the world through the eyes of a fearful animal; seeing all the patrons and their elegant companions and knowing that he was not the hunter here—he was the prey.

                "Arthur?"

                Arthur flinched when Francis touched his shoulder. He heard the note of concern in the Frenchman's voice.

                "Oh, s-sorry," he said, trying to hide the panic brewing inside him.

                "Are you okay, _chéri_? You look pale."

                Arthur tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. "I... I need fresh air."

                He didn't wait for Francis' reply before frantically leaving the claustrophobic pressure of the theatre. Nor did he pay attention to where he was going, too eager to find the closest exit. (The word _fire-escape_ sounded in his head, and for a moment he wished that Matthew were there.) He shouldered his way ruthlessly through the milling crowd, ignoring the angry protests until he collided with someone and fell to the floor.

                "Hey!" snapped the redhead.

                Many nearby patrons rushed to assist, not Arthur, but the petite brunette whom he had accidentally knocked down. The boy was offered a hand and asked if he was okay, while Arthur crawled meekly to his feet. "I-I—I'm sorry," he said, feeling small beneath the disdainful glares and muttered complaints, looking at him like he was a poorly bred dog someone had tactlessly set loose. His heart was pounding, now; his face flushing in embarrassment. He was about to make a quick escape when someone said:

                "Hey, I know you. I've seen you before."

                _No_ , Arthur panicked. _Oh_ , _please no_ —

                "You're in porn!" the youth said loudly, pointing and laughing. "You're Lexus, the porn-star!"

                Arthur wanted to deny it, to tell the boy he had made a mistake, but everyone was looking at him now, and he felt the words get stuck in his throat.

                A mature man in a broad-shouldered black suit glared critically down at him, and said very sternly: "This is a _nice_ establishment."

                Arthur felt his words like a blow, especially the ones left unsaid: _This is no place for someone like you_.

                _I know_ , he agreed.

                And ran for the door.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Francis caught sight of Arthur just as he slipped through the doors and hurried to follow him.

                To say that Arthur's sudden escape had taken him by surprise was an understatement. Francis had no notion of what had happened to scare him—because that's precisely what he had seen on the Englishman's face. Fear. But not as if he had been threatened or hurt; it was fear in the form of panic, fuelled by a survival instinct to flee. Something had upset Arthur to the point of panic—but what?

                _Was it me_? Francis wondered. _Was it something I did or didn't do_? _Is Arthur upset with me_?

He felt guilty as he excused his way toward the doors, guilty for not reading the warning signs of his date's—his lover's—distress.

                He found Arthur in the botanical gardens across the street, standing by a Grecian fountain dressed in ivy. He was staring intently into the water, seeing his rippling reflection, perhaps, as he tried to relax. But it wasn't working. His posture was stiff and arched in self-defense, his hands balled into fists, and, though he wasn't a big man, nothing about him looked remotely approachable. He didn't even respond when Francis called to him from across the road. He just stared into the water, looking like stone, and yet—he shivered. Coatless, Arthur shivered in the cold and raised his arms to wrap around himself, as if a strong enough gust might blow him away.

                _I'm such a fool_ , Francis thought, his heart going out to the waif that was Arthur.

                He knew Arthur suffered social anxiety—or, had suspected as much—but he had chosen to ignore it, thinking that he could cure it by coaxing the Englishman out. Now he realized it was more than that.

                _It's so much more_ , _isn't it_ , _Arthur_? _It's something eating you from the inside and out_.

                Reflecting on their time together, Francis realized that they had always met and stayed at his flat. They had spent the afternoons together, tucked safely away until the early-evening rush-hour, when there were hundreds of people out on the streets; hundreds of people to use as shields. Arthur rarely went anywhere after dark unless he was accompanied by Matthew or Lovino; he rarely diverged from his routine; and he rarely lifted his head to look anyone in the eye.

                _Something has beaten you_ , Francis thought, watching the small figure shiver, looking like so many cases he had seen before. _Something has been beating you down for a long time._

                _But what_?

                Francis hated that Arthur safe-guarded his past so stubbornly, because it was bleeding into his present and starving his future. And he hated that he didn't know how to help.

                _Just tell me_ , he wanted to say—scream. _Tell me what you need and I'll give it to you_!

                Was it money? Protection? Love?

                _I'd give it all to you_ , _Arthur_ , _if only you would ask_.

                But Arthur didn't ask. He would _never_ ask. Instead, he turned around to meet Francis, and said: "I'm sorry."

                Francis wanted to go to him, to wrap his overcoat around him and hug him and hold him and promise that everything would be okay, but he didn't. Something about Arthur stopped him.

"No, _chéri_ ," he said. "It's my fault, I shouldn't have—"

                "I'm sorry," Arthur repeated, as if Francis hadn't spoken. His eyes were big in his delicate, freckled face, but there was more than apology lurking in their depths.

                "I can't do this," he said.

                Francis stiffened. "Do what?" he asked, playing dumb.

                Arthur's stare hardened, like he hated Francis for making him say it aloud: "I can't pretend to be something I'm not."

                "What are you talking about? Arthur, you can't seriously think—"

                "I don't _think_ , I _know_ ," Arthur countered. He shivered in the wind. "I know what I am, Francis. I know what my limitations are. I know I don't belong here. I don't belong—"

                _Don't say it. Please_ , _don't say it._

                "—with you."

                "No, that's ridiculous!" Francis burst impulsively. It just slipped out, fueled by anger because Arthur couldn't see how important he was, how precious. "Of course you belong with me. Here—or anywhere! You are worth so much more than you think. Don't walk away from what we have just because other people don't like it. Don't let them tell you who to be. You can be anything you want—"

                "Francis," said Arthur, and this time his voice was soft and sad. "I don't feel good about myself when I'm with you. I feel like you deserve better."

                Francis shook his head in denial, in disbelief. "That's not for you to decide. It is my choice who I fall in love with—"

                "It's not me," Arthur said, backing fearfully away. "It can't be me."

                "Please wait," Francis begged, reaching out—offering Arthur his hand; hoping he would accept it. He hadn't realized how deeply he cared for the Englishman until now. He couldn't lose him to fear.

                "Please, Arthur, don't do this. Don't go."

                Arthur's green eyes shone in the lamplight. " _I'm sorry_ ," he said.

                Then he ran.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

The wind caressed Matthew's naked skin as he fell back against the Mercedes' windshield, padded by the sleeping-bag Gilbert kept for _emergencies_. It was a cold December night, but the boy barely felt it. His heart was pounding and his skin was flushed, buried beneath the weight of a hot-blooded German body. A deliciously fit body, slicked with sweat, and as hard and white as marble. His fingers greedily traced the smooth bulges and deep indents of Gilbert's tall, lean figure, all rugged planes of tense, wiry muscle and heat. His skin tingled where Gilbert's hands touched him, kneading the soft, sensitive insides of his upper-thighs; pushing with his blunt fingers until he was knuckle-deep inside the boy, who moaned deeply into his boyfriend's hot kiss. Matthew pawed at Gilbert's back one-handed as he arched into the kisses and touches, squeezing the German's narrow hips between his thighs. The weeping friction of their stiff cocks in his other hand was making him ache.

                " _Gil_..." he begged, saliva on his lips.

                Gilbert grabbed Matthew's wrist, fingers slick, and pinned it to the windshield. Then he lifted up the boy's leg and repositioned himself; Matthew wrapped his leg around Gilbert's waist. A little lopsided, unbalanced on the hood of the car. Matthew felt himself slide sideways, but was soon anchored by Gilbert. He pushed his cock into Matthew in one forceful motion that drew a sharp gasp from the writhing boy.

                "S-sorry," Gilbert panted, going still. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

                Matthew replied by shifting lower, taking Gilbert's cock in deeper. " _Gil_ ," he whispered, pulling Gilbert's head down; nipping his earlobe. " _I'm not going to break_."

                Gilbert's apologetic eyes regarded Matthew in surprise for a moment, reading the boy's desire, the consent of his words. Then they filled with wolfish hunger.

                _Yes_ , Matthew thought, closing his eyes; clenching his fists; calling-out his lover's name, _this_ _is what I've been waiting for._

                Later, Matthew considered how reckless it had been to fuck on the hood of a car in the open, parked in what was, technically, a public place, empty or not. Indecent—not to mention, illegal. But the thrill of it had drowned the rational part of his brain and let lust reign. It had been too good not to indulge: the forceful, greedy way Gilbert had taken him was something right out of a novel. His whole body was still trembling in shock, but it was totally worth the new bruises and bites he had acquired.

                "That was good," Gilbert said, breathless, staring vacantly up at the stars.

                Matthew glanced at him, lying side-by-side, thinking it an oversimplified description for what they had just done, but—admittedly—a true one.

                _Good_ wasn't a big enough word for it, but, as his brain was also on temporary leave, he merely agreed:

                "So good," he said, voice a bit hoarse.

                Gilbert turned his head to face Matthew. His cheeks were flushed and his fine hair was a mess, silvery locks standing on-end like an eighties rock musician; his red eyes bright, but eyelids heavy; and his pale lips curled into a lazy grin. The taut muscles in his abdomen shook, and a second later a raspy chuckle rumbled up his throat and out of his mouth. Matthew laughed, too, though neither of them knew why.

                "You okay, _schatzi_?" Gilbert asked, looping his arm beneath Matthew.

                Matthew shivered and shifted closer, laying his head on Gilbert's chest. He could feel the cold acutely, now, drying the sweat on his skin, but he was too exhausted to move (or to care). He felt sleepy and satisfied now that his body was beginning to numb. "Yes," he replied, tracing the corded lines of Gilbert's torso; absently thinking that he made a bad pillow. (There was nothing physically soft about the German, that was for sure.) After a long moment of peaceful silence, he peeked up at his boyfriend, and said: "We should _definitely_ do that again."

                "Just like that?" Gilbert teased, combing his fingers through Matthew's curls.

                "Mm hmm, just like that.

                "Is that—okay?" he added, hearing Lovino's voice in his head— _like it rough_ , _do you_ , _Mattie_?—and suddenly feeling a bit shy.

                But Gilbert's playful growl and _rough_ lips perished the thought.

                "Fuck. Yes," he said.

* * *

**GILBERT**

Matthew's sleepy weight leant heavily against Gilbert as he drove back downtown, his head resting on the German's shoulder. Gilbert drove one-handed, his other arm looped around the boy's waist to reach the gearshift, trapping him in a hug; their sides pressed together on the bench; Matthew's torso twisted and his legs flopped over the passenger's seat. It was cozy, he thought, with the heat blasting and the radio playing an old song. Matthew's long curls felt soft on his neck; he had taken every opportunity tonight to run his fingers through them.

                He took the long route back to the flat, then circled the block twice just to extend the ride, telling himself it was the song he wanted to listen to, not the quiet sound of Matthew sleeping. Then, when he finally did park, he didn't move. He just sat back in the driver's seat, the heat toasty, the radio playing quietly, and the sweetest boy in the whole goddamn world tucked under his arm. He rubbed his thumb against Matthew's arm as he stared absently out the windshield. The windshield on which he had lost control of himself and fucked the boy until his cries had shattered the mountain silence; the boy he had grabbed and bitten and bruised, urged on by eager gasps and throaty moans and a begging voice that wanted it _faster_ and _harder_ ; the boy he had fucked so shamelessly, it would make his ancestors blush; the boy who stirred reckless, carnal feelings within him, but tender feelings, too; the boy who was— _finally_ —his beautiful young boyfriend.

                There wasn't a molecule of regret in Gilbert for what he and Matthew had done, and yet doubt flooded him as he sat in the dark:

                _You shouldn't be doing this_ , said his age, his experience.

                _You'll be judged for it_ , said his fear.

                _It's so risky_ , said his pride.

                _It probably won't last_ , said distrust.

                _But it's what you want_ , said his heart, silencing all the rest. _It's what you're falling in love with_.

                It was half-one in the morning when Matthew awoke. "Gil—?" he asked, pressing his forehead to Gilbert's shoulder to avoid the streetlights. "Are we home?"

                "Yeah," he said, _unfortunately_.

                "Okay," Matthew murmured, but he didn't sit up. Instead, he snuggled closer and wrapped his arms around Gilbert's neck, like a body-pillow.

                Gilbert chuckled. "You've got to get up," he said, cupping the back of Matthew's head. "It's too cold to stay here all night."

                " _Shhh_ ," Matthew whispered; Gilbert felt the brush of his lips, " _I'm sleeping_."

                " _You need to sleep in your bed_ , schatzi," he whispered back. Then he opened the door and slid out, dragging Matthew with him. In a single, fluid motion he pulled the boy from the car and into his arms, cradling him against his chest like a newlywed couple.

                "Cheater." Matthew kissed Gilbert's neck, then his jaw. Then he said, somewhat timidly: "Don't hurt yourself, Gil. I'm not that light."

                Gilbert exhaled dismissively, a snort of derision. "You do know that I could easily bench-press you, right?" he bragged.

                "Well, _now_ I do," Matthew replied. He placed another kiss on Gilbert's neck. "We should try that sometime."

                Gilbert chuckled. "Were you always this flirty?"

                "No," Matthew smiled; half-joking, half-serious. "I only flirt with my boyfriend."

                Gilbert stumbled inside and up the stairs, distracted by Matthew's soft lips, teasing his. He gave the (broken) door a swift kick and entered the flat, groping in the darkness, tripping over Lovino's shoes. _No_ , _not Lovino's shoes_ — _Toni's shoes_ , he realized, shoving them carelessly aside. Matthew was giggling in a charming, childish way as Gilbert manoeuvred, still wrapped around the German's neck. He pulled Gilbert's head down for a proper kiss just as Gilbert saw movement in his peripheral vision. He jerked his head up—not that Matthew noticed; eyes closed, he kissed his boyfriend's neck instead—and saw a silhouette sitting on the windowsill. The window was open, which explained the freezing temperature in the flat, and a skinny figure was sitting with one leg dangling down, one leg folded, one hand resting atop his knee holding a lit cigarette. Their eyes met for a second, then Arthur looked quickly away, pretending not to see the couple's clumsy arrival.

                _What happened_? Gilbert wondered, watching Arthur's shoulders tense as he lifted the cigarette to his mouth. His green eyes had been bright and wet.

                Gilbert took Matthew into the bedroom and dropped him gently onto the unmade bed.

                " _Don't go_ ," Matthew begged, kissing him, his fingers coiled in Gilbert's shirt. " _Stay with me_."

                Gilbert pulled back just enough to smile down at the dishevelled boy. "I would, Mattie, in a heartbeat. But I don't think there's room for you, me, _and_ Arthur in this little bed."

                Matthew's laugh was more of an amused sigh.

                "I'll see you tomorrow," he promised. Then he kissed Matthew's head. "Sweet dreams, _schatzi_."

                "Sweet dreams, love," Matthew parroted, already half-asleep.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

In the dead-silence, it wasn't hard for Arthur to eavesdrop on Gilbert and Matthew's hushed conversation. Not that he was trying to hear; in fact, he wished he couldn't. The sweet words passed between them, the smiles on their flushed faces, tousled hair, bedraggled clothes, the playful giggles in Matthew's voice—it wasn't hard to imagine what kind of night they had shared, and it just made Arthur feel worse. It sucker-punched him in the stomach, like the final blow in a boxing match against himself. It hurt his heart, because why couldn't he have that? Why couldn't he look at Francis with such unabashed devotion, like Matthew looked at Gilbert? Or the playful affection with which Lovino looked at Antonio? Why couldn't he admit to himself that he wanted to be with Francis? Why couldn't he let himself he happy?

                He could, he knew. He _could_ , but he _wouldn't_. And he knew exactly why.

                It was Ivan. It was Mikkel. It was everyone who was waiting to tear them apart if they weren't careful. It was the world they belonged to: not a world of love and laughter, but of greed and lust and every-man-for-himself. He wouldn't let Francis become a part of that world. And he wouldn't let Francis distract him from it—not anymore.

                _Because if I don't protect us_ , _who will_?

                He heard rather than saw Gilbert leave. The German didn't speak to him, and Arthur didn't look back. When the door was shut, he took one last drag on his cigarette and then flicked it into the street below. He didn't wash-up or change his clothes; he just gargled some mouthwash, pulled off his trousers, which were too tight to sleep in, and slumped miserably into the bed beside Matthew.

                For a moment he just stared at the boy, snuggled contently beneath the duvet. He looked peaceful—but was he?

                " _Don't go_ ," Matthew had said to Gilbert. " _Stay with me_."

                Arthur knew there was more than flirtation in Matthew's plea, and it made him feel guilty. It made him wish that he had never laid eyes on Detective Francis Bonnefoi.

                _It's my fault he's afraid to be alone_. _It's my fault he needs Gilbert to chase away his fears_ , _because I'm not enough anymore. I've never been enough._

                "Art?" Matthew said as Arthur shimmied down. He didn't open his eyes, but needn't to know it was Arthur beside him. "How was your night?" he murmured.

                "Fine," Arthur lied, hoping Matthew was too drowsy to hear it. "How was yours, pet?"

                " _So good_ ," he sighed. "Gil's just... the best person I've ever met."

                It hurt Arthur's heart to see Matthew's smile.

                "Don't be so sure," he said softly. But Matthew was already asleep.


	10. Nine

**LOVINO**

**THE NEXT DAY**

It was just after nine o'clock when Lovino awoke, only to find that Antonio wasn't beside him, which worried him, because they had fallen asleep together. For one jarring moment he wondered if Antonio had left sometime in the night, having changed his mind about everything Lovino had confessed, and deciding to bail on their relationship and find himself a boyfriend who wasn't traumatized by past abuse. _Maybe that's for the best_ , he considered, trying to deny the sadness he felt just thinking of it. Then he heard Antonio's voice from the kitchen, saying: " _Hola_ , _Matt_!"and he relaxed, feeling foolish for overreacting and doubting the sweeter-than-sugar Spaniard.

                _He's still here_ , he thought in relief. _Despite what I told him_ , _he still wants me._

                He yawned and stretched like a kitten, arching his back into pillows that smelled faintly of Antonio's cologne. Now that he knew Antonio was in the kitchen waiting for him, he was in no hurry to rouse from slumber. His body felt slow and heavy, drowsy in the way one does when shaking off the last remnants of a good night's sleep. Because it _had_ been good. He had forgotten how good it felt to fall asleep with someone lying beside him, their limbs entangled and their warm bodies pressed close. Lovino had always hated waking up alone.

                Eventually, he did drag himself out of bed, throwing on his boxer-shorts and then a pullover, because it was cold in the flat.

                _Did someone leave the window open_? he wondered, shivering.

                Antonio and Matthew were congregating at the counter. "Cute glasses," Antonio was saying as he unloaded a brown paper-bag.

                Matthew smiled shyly, trying to hide his bespectacled face with his bedraggled hair. "I accidentally slept with my contacts in and they were my last pair," he said in explanation. "Oh, Art—" he started when Arthur appeared from the washroom.

                "I'll order more," Arthur assured him. (Why Matthew couldn't order his own contacts, Lovino didn't know.)

                Matthew looked relieved, but it wasn't Matthew whom Lovino was staring at.

                " _Hola_ , _cariño_ ," Antonio smiled, crossing the flat to kiss Lovino's cheek. He looked like he had been awake for a while, showered and dressed and looking like the weekend, even though it was Monday.

                _Mm_ , _he smells so good_ , Lovino thought, smiling as the Spaniard lingered. He was sure Antonio would have rubbed noses or cheeks with him if they hadn't had an audience, like a dog begging for attention, and he admitted that he would have fallen for it. They were both very fond of physical affection.

                "I got breakfast for everyone," Antonio announced, pushing a take-away cup into Lovino's hand. "Here you go: black coffee, just as you like it."

                " _Grazie_."

                "And tea for Arthur—two milks, no sugar, right?"

                Arthur took it with a quiet: "Cheers."

                "And Matt," Antonio continued, seeming not to notice Arthur's morose tone, "I didn't know if you prefer coffee or tea, so I got you both."

                "And he'll drink both," Arthur muttered, retreating to the window.

                Matthew, however, looked delighted. "Thanks!" he chirped, taking both cups. Then: "I like this one, Lovino," he joked, indicating Antonio. "He can definitely stay."

                Lovino rolled his eyes, but smiled. It felt good to have his friend's approval; God knows, he had never had his family's. In that moment, he was proud of how considerate his boyfriend was.

                "Dibs on the strawberry danish!" Matthew said, gesturing to the smörgåsbord of breakfast pastries crowding the countertop. "Unless someone else wants it—?" he added sheepishly.

                Antonio laughed. "Take whatever you want, Matt, I bought lots. I even bought jam scones—against my better judgement," he teased, "because I know that you like them, Arthur—"

                "No, thank-you," said Arthur without turning around. He was sitting on the wide window-ledge, cradling his tea against his folded knees, and looking for all the world like the sullen protagonist of a Dickens' novel. _If only it was raining_ , Lovino thought.

                Antonio glanced at Lovino, silently asking if he had said or done something wrong to upset the Englishman, but Matthew intervened:

                " _Mine_!" he claimed, scooping a jam scone into what was fast becoming a hoard of pastries.

                Antonio snorted, relieved. "Really, Matt? Scones—?"

                Lovino surrendered his hands in mock-defeat. "Oh, don't even bother, Toni. He will literally eat anything you put in front of him. It's disgusting."

                Matthew frowned and stuck out his tongue, coated in jam. Lovino cringed: " _Gross_!" Matthew laughed, and said: "Thank-you for breakfast, Antonio."

                "My pleasure," said the Spaniard, and meant it.

                "So," he added deviously, saddling up beside Matthew to grab a croissant, "did you have a good night?"

                "Subtle, Toni," Lovino criticized, but he, too, was grinning curiously at Matthew.

                Matthew swallowed, wiped his face, and shrugged. "Yes, it was good," he said cavalierly, dropping a serviette by accident. The moment he bent over to retrieve it, his legs buckled and a high-pitched yelp escaped him: " _Ouch_!

                "Okay..." he admitted, grabbing the countertop for support, "it was _really_ good."

                Antonio threw his head back and laughed.

                Lovino's grin was saucy. "Bit sore today, Mattie?"

                Matthew blushed. "Maybe I'll just go take a shower..."

                "Yes, you do that," Lovino said, wagging his finger like a disappointed house-mother.

                Matthew raised a finger to Lovino, too, but it was only one digit. He closed the washroom door on Antonio's wolf-howl and a moment later the shower started.

                Lovino was still snickering, secretly happy for his roommate—the sparkle in the boy's eyes was more telling than even his bashful smile—when his gaze landed, again, on Arthur.

                _Okay_ , _something's definitely wrong_ , he guessed. The Arthur who nagged his little cousin to wear a coat and ordered his contacts for him would never just sit idly by while the boy's sex-life was under attack. Lovino had half-expected Arthur to chime in with something embarrassingly parental, like: " _I hope he wore a condom_!"—a genuine concern disguised as a joke—but he hadn't. He hadn't made a peep. Lovino wondered if he had even heard, so lost did Arthur look sitting alone at the window with an untouched cup of take-away tea.

                With a look he excused himself from Antonio, who was finishing Matthew's danish, and crossed the flat.

                "Hey," he said, gently tapping Arthur's shoulder, "are you okay?"

                Arthur nodded, his eyes focused on the street below. It was a clear dismissal, but Lovino deliberately ignored it.

                "Arthur," he said, sterner, "Toni's being really nice and you just walked away."

                "Sorry."

                "What's wrong?" Lovino persisted, leaning in, trying to see Arthur's face. "Did something happen last night?"

                Finally Arthur faced him, his green eyes raw with fatigue and licked with something teetering on the edge of anger. Lovino stepped back. Arthur's gaze swivelled to Antonio and back, indicating that he didn't want to say in front of the Spaniard. "Later," he promised.

                Lovino nodded in mute agreement and watched Arthur retreat into his dark bedroom, leaving his tea behind.

                "Lovi—?"

                Lovino faced Antonio, putting Arthur's troubles temporarily out-of-mind. "Mm hmm?"

                He was surprised to see the Spaniard looking uncertain, his fingers absently picking at the fraying sleeves of his cardigan. He cast a cautious glance between the bedroom door and the washroom door, calculating how long they had to be alone. "Can we talk for a minute?"

                Lovino's chest instinctively tightened. "Sure," he said, inviting Antonio to the sunken couch. "What is it? Is it about what I told you last night?" he worried, afraid he had misread Antonio's reaction; afraid it really was too much for him to accept. _Who wants a boyfriend who won't put-out_?

                "No, no—I mean, kind of..."

                Antonio's dithering didn't inspire confidence in Lovino, whose heart started to pound.

                "You shared a really personal secret with me last night," Antonio acknowledged, "and I'm really glad you did. It makes me happy knowing you trust me that much. So, I think it's only fair that I share a secret with you."

                "Okay—?"

                "Lovi," said Antonio seriously. He took Lovino's hand and held it between both of his. For one wild moment, Lovino thought he was going to propose and his heart jumped into his throat. Then Antonio said: "I want you to know that what I'm about to tell you won't change anything between us. I love you, _cariño_. And that's why you deserve the truth. See, I haven't been completely honestly about who I am. I mean, I'm still me, of course, but I... uh..."

                "Toni?" Lovino prompted after a long pause. "You're kind of freaking me out. What is it you want to tell me?"

                "I told you I was unemployed, but that was a lie," Antonio admitted shamefully. "The truth is—"

                _Oh God_ , _I knew it_ , _he's a criminal. He's a drug-dealer. He works for the mafia. He's going to tell me he's killed people. Oh God_ , _I'm dating another psychopath_ —

                "—I'm a police detective," Antonio said.

                Lovino froze. " _Eh_ —?"

                Antonio hung his head in apology. " _Ah_! I'm so sorry I couldn't tell you sooner, Lovi. I wanted to, honest, but the reason you and I met is because my partners and I are working a case involving Club 69, and, until recently, it was too dangerous for us to reveal our identities. I'm sorry, _cariño_. I—"

                "Wait," Lovino interrupted. He pulled his hand out of Antonio's. "Your partners—? Francis and Gilbert?" he guessed, his brain reeling as the puzzle pieced together. "Do Art and Matt know?"

                "Arthur does. He's known since before our first date," Antonio confessed, looking so guilty, so repentant that he resembled a puppy who had messed on the floor. "But Matt doesn't know. I don't think Gil wants to tell him. Not yet, okay?"

                Lovino nodded in absent agreement, a look of incredulity on his face. "So, you're, like... investigating us?"

                "Not you, the club. But we're done now. Done being undercover, anyway. That's why I can finally tell you. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you sooner," he repeated, "but it was for your own safety, I promise. I love you, Lovino," he added earnestly. "Me being a detective doesn't change that."

                "A detective," Lovino parroted, feeling dazed. "You're an undercover police detective—?

                " _Oh_ , _thank God_!" he gasped, and lurched forward into Antonio's arms. "I thought you were, like, a mafia hit-man or something!" he said, hugging the Spaniard. "Police detective is _so much better_!"

                He felt Antonio's body respond to his touch, his warm hands coming up to rest on his back to return the hug.

                "You thought I was a criminal and you still agreed to date me—?" he asked; half-joking, half-horrified.

                Lovino relaxed, feeling as if a weight had been lifted. "I think we've already established that I don't have the best taste in men."

                Antonio was quiet for a moment, thinking of Sadik. Lovino knew this because the Spaniard's arms tightened protectively. It was nice.

                "Hey, Toni?"

                "Yeah?"

                Lovino pulled back so that he and Antonio were face-to-face. "Don't ever lie to me again, okay?"

                Antonio's puppy-dog eyes sparkled in apology, then resolve. "I promise," he said.

                Lovino kissed him, letting his actions say what his words had not. _I forgive you_ , whispered a soft brush of his fingers. _I trust you_ , pressed his lips, yielding to the Spaniard's tongue. _I want you_ , breathed a husky sigh of arousal.

                "So..." he mused, a spicy seductress in his soft voice. He was sitting on Antonio's lap, now. "I'm dating a cop, _hmm_? Does that mean you have a _uniform_?" he whispered in Antonio's ear.

                "Uh, yeah—?"

                Lovino looped his arms suggestively around Antonio's neck, his fingers in his hair. He pressed his forehead to Antonio's, peering down at him, and said:

                "Can I wear it?"

                Antonio grinned. "You certainly can."

* * *

**GILBERT**

Gilbert's fingers flew over the keyboard as he composed a strongly-worded e-mail to a certain slothful secretary at the city's only French high-school, who had promised to send him electronic confirmation of his request for transcripts by Monday morning, but whom had failed to do so. And Gilbert—not a particularly patient man—felt the need to remind her of the verbal contract they had made. _And—send_! he thought in petty gratification.

                ( _You really don't know the meaning of_ subtle, _do you_ , _Gil_? said Francis' voice in his head.)

                The feeling dissolved the moment he returned his attention to a large, password-protected file on his laptop, which contained sensitive information that he had been collecting for years. It wasn't something he should have been working on in the office, but lately it had been nagging at him almost constantly, ever since he had been assigned to—or rather, begged for—the Club 69 case. _There's something here_ , _something that I keep missing_ , he thought, glaring at the screen. It wasn't something he should have been working on in public, but he was a Sergeant. No one was going to reprimand him for using his personal laptop at work. Besides, everyone knew not to disturb Gilbert Beilschmidt when he was concentrating—

                " _Hola_ , _Gil_!"

                Gilbert quickly closed the file, leaving nothing on his desktop except for a picture of his dogs. He leant back and adopted a casual posture as Antonio approached.

                "You're two hours late," he said.

                Antonio shrugged. "You going to write me up, _Sergeant_?"

                Gilbert glared; he hated when his friends called his bluff. He could, _should_ , write Antonio up for his habitual tardiness, but he never would, and both of his friends knew that and took advantage of it. He could hear the Chief's tut in his head, saying: _You're too lenient_ , _Beilschmidt. You'll never make Inspector by the time you're thirty if you keep playing favourites with your crew._ Gilbert knew this, and it irked him, but he also couldn't bring himself to pull rank on his only two friends in the department. He didn't want to go back to being the loner workaholic he had been before Francis and Antonio joined the force: effective, but too intimidating and unapproachable. The Beilschmidt family was well-known and well-respected in the city. They were rich and powerful, and had such a good, clean reputation that they were positively boring to talk about, so the press usually left them alone. The only day they had ever been in the tabloids was the day Gilbert enrolled in the police academy and announced his intention to become a detective.

                "A detective?" the reports had gaped. "What about your father's company?"

                "No comment," Gilbert had said, trying to get around them.

                "You have opportunities others can only dream of! Why throw it all away?" they asked eagerly.

                "No comment," Gilbert repeated, and then walked forcefully through them, breaking a camera in the process. (He had always hated being photographed.)

                He had never told anyone his reason for joining the police force, though Ludwig had guessed— _guessed_ , but never voiced—and he never would. The evidence living in the brains of his laptop would get him fired, if not sentenced to prison if anyone ever reported it. It was the reason he worked so hard, working even on his days off, ignoring social camaraderie and instead single-mindedly focused on becoming the best. He pushed himself toward promotion after promotion, going from cadet to constable to detective to sergeant in record-breaking time, because the higher he rose the more he could do. His colleagues-turned-underlings gossiped that it was his family's influence that buoyed him, but they were wrong. Gilbert's father had never approved of his choice to join the police force, though he had never said as much in words. On the day of Gilbert's graduation from the academy, he had clapped his son's shoulder, and said: "If this is the path you have chosen, I expect you to reach the top."

                _Chief of Police_ , that was the goal. If Gilbert wouldn't rule the family company, then his father expected him to rule the entire police force instead.

                Francis had joined the force because he had always wanted to help people. Antonio had wanted—needed—to help himself. But Gilbert—? Gilbert's reasons were entirely selfish. And he prayed no one ever found out.

                Knowing that, he didn't wonder why his colleagues had never invited him out for after-work drinks. He never worried about sitting alone, eating alone, _being_ alone despite the people surrounding him. He gave orders, but didn't really talk to anyone. He had had no one to confide in, no one to be friends with—until Francis joined the force.

                Gilbert would never forget that day. Francis had waltzed in, a smile on his pretty face, thrown his overcoat on the desk beside Gilbert's, and said: "Lucky me, I get to work beside the most gorgeous man in the office."

                Gilbert had glared at Francis, thinking it a cruel joke, and he immediately decided to dislike the Frenchman. But then Francis' smile softened and his eyes revealed a shyness that undermined his cocky charm.

                "I don't know anyone here," he admitted. "Would you like to have lunch with me? I'm Francis Bonnefoi," he added, holding out his hand.

                Francis later told Gilbert that, on his first day, he had been warned off of him by the other detectives, who expressed condolences that Francis had been assigned the desk beside the stoic German's.

                "They must have thought you were suicidal when you introduced yourself to me," Gilbert said.

                "Maybe," Francis agreed, "but it just made me want to be your friend all the more."

                "Why?" Gilbert asked, genuinely curious.

                Francis had smiled. "Because you looked as lonely as I felt, and everyone needs a friend."

                So, yeah. Maybe Gilbert showed Francis and Antonio a bit of favouritism, but he didn't care. Let the gossips gossip. Let them think Antonio was his pet; let them think he was fucking Francis. He didn't care. It was worth having genuine friends.

                Instead of reprimanding Antonio's tardiness like he was supposed to, Gilbert merely crossed his arms, raised an eyebrow, and asked:

                "Weren't you wearing those clothes yesterday?"

                "I spent the night at Lovi's."

                "A good night?"

                "Yeah," said the Spaniard, starry-eyed. "It was really good."

                "Hey!" Gilbert called when Antonio walked away to his adjacent desk. "That's it? You're not going to ask me how _my_ night was?"

                "Oh, I don't need to," Antonio grinned. "I saw Matt this morning. He's pretty sore."

                Gilbert's guilt was short-lived, because— _fuck yeah_!

                "Oh, is he—?" he asked, but his nonchalance was undermined by the goofy grin that stole over his proud face.

                Antonio rolled his eyes. "I think the hickey on your neck speaks for itself, Gil. I _told_ you he liked you," he said as Gilbert tugged up his collar. "All of that worrying did nothing but save you a month of sex."

                "Did you just fucking _I-told-you-so_ me?" Gilbert asked, a warning in his voice.

                Antonio stuck his tongue out, then shifted the topic-of-conversation. "Have you seen Fran yet? I tried calling him earlier, but I got his voicemail."

                "Oh, yeah," said Gilbert, his smile falling. "He didn't have a good night. Arthur dumped him."

                " _What_?"

                Antonio leapt up so fast, it knocked his wheeled desk-chair backwards. " _Arthur_ dumped _Francis_?" he yelled, aghast. "What the fuck happened?"

                Gilbert waved for Antonio to sit down, conscious of him making a scene. "I don't know. I saw Fran first thing this morning. He just said that Arthur broke it off last night, and he didn't want to talk about it."

                "No," Antonio said firmly, stabbing his index-finger at Gilbert, the messenger. "Nobody just breaks it off with _my_ best friend for no fucking reason. Francis Bonnefoi is a goddamned treasure, and Arthur- _fucking_ -Kirkland should feel _fucking_ privileged to go out with him. _Fuck_!" he cursed loudly, drawing attention. " _I bought that bastard scones_!"

                "Toni, calm down," Gilbert ordered. "It doesn't matter what happened, okay? It's none of our business. If one person wants to breakup, you breakup, that's how it works."

                Antonio righted his desk-chair with more force than necessary and slumped down into it. " _English bastard_ ," he mumbled, grabbing a squishy stress-ball for each hand. " _What kind of blind_ , _heartless dumbass do you have to be to breakup with Fran_?"

                A moment later, Francis walked into the office and Antonio sat straight up, like a hound at attention. If he'd had a tail, it would have wagged tentatively in concern.

                " _Bonjour_ , Toni," said the Frenchman in greeting.

                " _Hola_ , _Paco_..." Antonio returned, smiling meekly.

                Gilbert sighed. There were only two times when Antonio forgot himself and called Francis _Paco_ : when he was really happy, or when he was really upset. The nickname seemed to recollect a safer, simpler time in his memory, which comforted the Spaniard in times of stress. "It's just a pet-name from high-school," Antonio had dismissed when Gilbert asked. But the way Antonio's face softened when he spoke it made Gilbert think it wasn't _just_ anything. It was something important.

                "Uh, Gil told me what happened," Antonio said to Francis. "Are you okay?"

                Francis' reply was indulgent, but stern in warning: "I'm fine, _chéri_ , but I'd rather not talk about it right now.

                "We have a professional development seminar in five-minutes," he added. "I thought you might forget, Toni, so I printed the agenda for you."

                Antonio nodded in thanks—he _had_ forgotten—and took the folder from Francis' hand. Then Francis walked away.

                Gilbert waited until he was gone, then said to Antonio: "I-told-you-so," but there was no humour in his tone.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

It's later," said Lovino, rapping his knuckles needlessly on Arthur's bedroom door. Needless, because he had already invited himself inside.

                Arthur was curled beneath the duvet. He hadn't slept well last night—he kept getting up, craving cigarettes—and now he had a pulsing headache and felt miserably tired. He didn't want to talk, least of all about his failed date.

                "Francis and I are done," he reported shortly, "now please leave."

                "You broke-up with Francis?" Lovino asked, failing to hide his surprise.

                Arthur huffed. "No, I didn't break-up with him. You can't break-up with someone whom you were never in a relationship with."

                "Oh, come on, Art—"

                "It's done," Arthur repeated firmly. "Now, if you don't mind, I have a raging headache and would like to go to sleep."

                Arthur heard Lovino's footsteps, not in retreat but walking forward. A moment later, he felt the mattress sink beneath the Italian's added weight. Lovino's effeminately small body didn't take up as much space as Matthew's, but Arthur still felt crowded. He tried to ignore the rude invasion of personal-space—physically _and_ emotionally—hoping to outlast Lovino's patience, but his stubborn housemate didn't give him the chance.

                "Why did you end it with Francis?"

                "Because it wasn't working," Arthur replied, hoping that a short, blunt answer would discourage additional questions. But it only _en_ couraged Lovino's sarcasm:

                "Oh, yeah, I could see that. I mean, the only times you were ever happy was when you came back from being with Francis, so yeah. I totally understand that it _wasn't working_ between you."

                Lovino's judgemental tone poked Arthur's temper, made worse by the fact that he knew the Italian was right. He _had_ been happy with Francis. _Bloody-hell._ He had felt safe and loved, valued as a human-being for the first time in his life, but—

                "Happy doesn't pay the rent."

                Lovino exhaled; it sounded disappointed. "You have to stop putting prices on everything, Art. That's how you end up like Mikkel Densen."

                The sudden insult hit like an uppercut, and, for a moment, Arthur was at a loss trying to concoct a defence. _You just don't understand_ , he thought of Lovino, who didn't seem to care about money, despite his gleeful shopping sprees. And Matthew cared even less (though, Arthur suspected that his restraint was a case of _you can't miss what you've never had_ ). They both acknowledged that money was needed to buy things, important to their wellbeing, but neither of them worried about it—obsessed about it—like Arthur did. _Which is precisely why I have to_! he thought, blaming them for his miserly habits; blaming them for his self-sacrifices. _If I don't take care of us_ , _who will_?

                "Why didn't you tell me I was dating a cop?" Lovino asked, changing the topic when Arthur didn't reply.

                " _Ugh_ ," he moaned, burying his head.

                "I'm interpreting that noise as an apology," Lovino said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

                "They asked me not to."

                "So? You still should've told me."

                Arthur lifted his head enough to look over-the-shoulder at Lovino. "Why?"

                "Because we're friends."

                "Are we?" Arthur asked frankly. "Or are we just housemates by necessity?"

                To his surprise, Lovino looked genuinely stung by the question.

                "You know," he said, shaking his head, "I've met a lot of prickly people in my life, but you, Arthur Kirkland, take the gold medal. Of course we're fucking friends," he growled, shimmying under the blankets beside Arthur and pulling the resistant Englishman into a forced hug. " _God_ ," he said in exasperation, "it's no wonder you ran away from Francis. If you can't even tell _me_ your feelings, how the hell do you expect to tell _him_?"

                "I don't have feelings for Francis," Arthur lied, trying to escape the Italian's clutches.

                "Sure you don't," Lovino mock-agreed. "And Romeo didn't love Juliette."

                "What? That's not even relevant!" Arthur argued. " _Romeo and Juliette_ is a tragedy!"

                Lovino squeezed him, and said: "So are you."

                Arthur went limp in Lovino's embrace. He was quiet for a long time. Blessedly, so was Lovino. He just held Arthur like a blanket— _or straightjacket_ , he thought—as if he thought the Englishman in desperate need of human contact. Eventually, he said:

                "I need a fag. Open the window, would you?"

                Lovino let go of him. "Matt will literally murder you if he finds out," he said, watching Arthur pull a packet of cigarettes out of his pillowcase.

                Arthur lit one and took a long drag. The smoke coiled around his head when he exhaled. "Well, don't tell him and he won't find out."

                Lovino hesitated for a moment, then ceded. "Fine," he agreed. "But on one condition. Give me one."

                He grabbed the packet, but it was empty.

                "Go buy your own," Arthur said. "And open the bloody window."

                Lovino grudgingly sat up and pushed the stiff window open. On his way back down into the blankets, he stole the cigarette right out of Arthur's mouth and inhaled deeply, his eyes closing in ecstasy. " _Oh God_ ," he sighed in relief.

                They had both agreed a year ago not to waste rent money on cigarettes and had both been regretting it ever since. Matthew had been the only happy one. His mother had died of lung cancer.

                "Don't you guys get enough second-hand smoke from the club?" he argued fervently, sounding like a public service announcement.

                Arthur always shook his head, too annoyed—and ashamed—to tell Matthew that second-hand smoke was a torture, not a relief.

                (It was fortunate that, in a city of smokers, Matthew had chosen a boyfriend who seemed to abstain. Francis and Antonio often left for cigarette breaks, oblivious to Arthur and Lovino's cravings, but Gilbert never joined them.)

                "Oi, give me that," Arthur said now, but Lovino dodged him and took another drag.

                "Nope, it's the last one, we're sharing," he said.

                Arthur frowned irritably. "And why the bloody-hell should we do that?"

                Lovino cracked open one gold-ringed eye and looked sideways at Arthur, the cigarette still lodged between his lips. "Because," he said, smiling self-importantly, "like it or not, Art, _we're friends_."

                Arthur rolled his eyes, but didn't deny it. He took the cigarette from Lovino and finished it.

                "Alright, _friend_ ," he said after a minute, balling-up the empty packet and bouncing it off Lovino's nose, "then the next pack's on you."

* * *

**GILBERT**

Gilbert glowered at the perky instructor, who had just forced them all out of their seats for the interactive portion of the seminar, which was on teamwork. He hated federally mandated courses at the best of times, but to have to attend one on _teamwork_ —? _What a fucking waste of my time_ , he thought irritably. He, Francis, and Antonio had the highest statistics on the force, making them the most effective team according to analysis. _The numbers don't lie_. _I don't need some_ professional development specialist—he glared at her— _to tell me how to work with my best friends. We get the job done_ , _and we don't have to talk about our feelings to do it._

                "Gil—?" said Antonio, then let himself fall back easily into Gilbert's outstretched arms.

                "Oh, look at that!" Gilbert said sarcastically, "I didn't let him fall to his untimely death on the freshly waxed floor!"

                The instructor shot him a dirty look, but didn't comment.

                Antonio laughed, looking up at Gilbert from upside-down. "Come on, Gil, trust-falls aren't that bad."

                "They're pointless," Gilbert argued. "They don't predict how someone will act in the field, in _real_ danger."

                "Well, just ten minutes until lunch," Francis said in appeasement, then stepped into position. "Ready, Toni?"

                Antonio hopped to his feet and nodded. "I won't let you down, Fran. And you know why? Because I'm not a selfish dick, who—"

                "Toni? I _really_ don't want to talk about it," Francis said for the umpteenth time. Then he fell backwards into Antonio's arms.

                Antonio squeezed him in a backwards hug before letting him go.

                "Your turn, Gil."

                "Hurry up, she's watching us. Do it and we get a perfect score."

                Gilbert stripped off his jacket and rolled his shoulders. "Fine," he grumbled. He positioned himself in front of Francis and leant slowly back—

                _Just jump_ , _Gilly_! _I'll catch you_ , _I promise_! _I'm not going to let you fall_!

                —then jerked forward with a gasp.

                "What was that?" Antonio criticised. "You barely tipped backwards."

                "Are you okay?" Francis asked, frowning.

                "Yeah," Gilbert said, shaking the voice from his head; shoving it back into the recesses of his memory. "Just let me try again."

                He looked back to be sure Francis was there, his arms held out, then let himself fall—

                " _Gil_!" Antonio complained when Gilbert's foot stepped back to catch his balance. "She's watching us. You're going to get us in trouble. Just let Fran catch you."

                " _I'm trying_ ," Gilbert said through grit teeth.

                "Do you want Toni to catch you instead?" Francis offered. "Or, both of us?"

                "No, it's fine." Gilbert shook his head. "I can do it this time. Ready?"

                "Yes," said Antonio flatly when Gilbert—again—caught himself. " _Are you_?"

                "Don't you trust us, Gil?" Francis asking, looking hurt.

                "Of course I do!" Gilbert snapped, harsher than he meant to. "It's just a stupid reflex, okay? I'm just too well-trained," he joked, forcing a laugh.

                "Is there a problem, gentleman?" asked the instructor. It was then that Gilbert realized his team was the last to be dismissed for lunch. "Sergeant?"

                "Whatever," Gilbert shrugged. "I can't fall on purpose, okay? It's basic self-preservation! Can we go now?"

                She cocked her head, looking at him in pity. "You don't trust your teammates to catch you?"

                "Oh, for fuck's sake—Look, I'd never _need_ my teammates to catch me, because I don't fucking fall, okay?"

                "Gil," said Francis, laying a placating hand on the German's arm.

                "People don't catch _me_ , I catch _them_! That's my fucking job!"

                " _Gil_."

                Gilbert unclenched his coiled fists, ashamed of letting his temper—his panic—get the better of him. "Sorry," he muttered to the instructor. Then he looked at his friends, silently conveying the same.

                Antonio smiled in reassurance. Francis rubbed his arm.

                "Sergeant," she said, making a note. "I want you to book an appointment with the department physician."

                "I just had a physical," Gilbert argued. "I don't need another—"

                "It wasn't a suggestion, Sergeant," she said, and walked away.

                "Come on," said Francis, letting him go. "Let's get lunch."

                Gilbert nodded and turned to grab his coat.

                _Trust me_ , _Gilly_! _I'm not going to let you fall_! said Mikkel's voice in his head.

* * *

**ANTONIO**

Antonio sat across the table from Francis in the trio's favourite café, picking at the sleeves of his cardigan beneath the tablecloth. The waiter was a college student who knew them well by now, and whom they all playfully flirted with in a plutonic way, but Antonio barely nodded in reply to his greeting. He was too focused on Francis, wondering what his friend was feeling and thinking, and worrying whether or not if he was okay. Francis was much subtler in his romantic feelings than either of his friends—much to Gilbert's embarrassment—but Antonio knew without being told that he had liked Arthur a lot. On the nights he and Francis had stayed late at the office, working on the case, they had gotten terribly distracted talking about their respective partners, which dissolved into shameless gushing on Antonio's part, and a kind of serene happiness on Francis'. Antonio had felt like they were two teenagers again, gossiping about their dates, and yet secretly thinking that no one would ever be good enough for his friend. _Francis Bonnefoi is a goddamn treasure_! he had said, and meant it. There was no one in the world Antonio loved or trusted more, and he felt scorned on Francis behalf that someone like Arthur couldn't see what he had thrown away.

                _Fran is falling in love with you_ , he thought to a figment-Arthur. _And you don't even know what that means._

                "Toni, _chéri_ ," said Francis kindly, "stop staring at me, I'm fine."

                _No_ , _you're not_ , he knew, but bowed his head bashfully, ashamed of making his friend uncomfortable.

                The secret truth was, Antonio felt on-edge whenever Francis was upset. It was unfair to place such a burden on his oldest, dearest friend, but he needed Francis to be strong and stable and _happy_ , because it made him feel less anxious. The police force gave Antonio a routine, and Gilbert gave him an outlet, but it was Francis who gave him the constant feeling of security he needed to function. Francis was his rock.

                As a change-of-topic, he said: "I told Lovi about us, that we're detectives."

                Gilbert's fork clattered to the tabletop. "What? _Why_?"

                Antonio shrugged. "Because it doesn't matter anymore. We won't be going back to Club 69 undercover, and I hated lying to him."

                " _Ah_ , _fuck_ ," Gilbert cursed. "Lovino can't keep his damn mouth shut, he's going to tell Matt."

                "No, he won't. I told him not to."

                " _You_ should tell Mathieu, Gil," Francis advised. "There's no danger in anyone knowing us, now."

                "Yes, there is!"

                Gilbert seemed to realize his mistake, because he quickly added: "My job works differently than yours. I'm supposed to be invisible, remember? No one's supposed to know who I am."

                "That pertains to criminals, Gil, not your boyfriend."

                "No. Matt's still too close to the case we're working," Gilbert dismissed.

                "The case _we're_ working, or the case _you're_ working?" Francis dared. "Come on, Gil, we're your partners. Do you really think we don't know about your side-project?"

                "We don't know what it is," Antonio added in reassurance, because Gilbert's face had gone white-er, "but we know it's something you've been working on for a long time. We know it's something important."

                "You don't have to tell us," Francis said, "but, _chéri_ , we're a little concerned about you. You're working too much again, and today you yelled during a work seminar. We just want to know that you're okay?"

                "I'm fine," said Gilbert, a moment too late to be honest. "I've just got a lot on my mind."

                "You should take some holidays over Christmas," Antonio suggested. "You haven't taken a holiday in forever, you must have a pile of days saved up."

                Gilbert exhaled: " _Pft_ , what would I even do?"

                "Spend time with Mathieu and not feel guilty about it—?"

                Antonio was happy—and amazed—to see that the mere mention of Matthew put Gilbert at-ease, like playing a beast a lullaby. His posture relaxed and he retrieved his fork. Francis wasn't the only one who had been hooked by a pretty Kirkland boy, it seemed. The difference was, Matthew actually seemed to be _good_ for Gilbert. _Unlike Arthur_ , he thought bitterly, whom Francis had obviously lost sleep over.

                "Yeah, okay," Gilbert said thoughtfully, smiling absently at the waiter when their entrées arrived. "That's not a bad idea. Do you think Matt will want to—?"

                He stopped, because both Francis and Antonio were staring at him doubtlessly, like: _Are you kidding_?

                "Yes," Francis answered the unfinished query, "I _very much_ think that Mathieu will want to spend Christmas with you."

                Antonio nodded. "Gil, if there's one thing in your life you don't have to worry about, it's Matt liking you."

                Gilbert didn't reply, but he smiled into his entrée.

                Antonio resisted the urge to tease him, knowing that Gilbert would only deny it if he did. _Oh_ , _Gil_ , he thought, _it's obvious_ _you've fallen head-over-heels for that boy_ , _why not just admit it_?

                "Wait," Gilbert said suddenly, his happy smile yielding to panic. "Does this mean I have to get him a gift?"

                Francis sighed; Antonio just stared, wondering how such a brilliant detective could fail to grasp something so painfully obvious.

                 "Of course it does!" they said in union.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

**LATER**

It was horrible," Matthew said when asked how his night was. "A big fight broke-out and one of the dancers had to go to the ER; twelve people got thrown-out— _twelve_! At least the Manager wasn't there. He would've been angry at me for wearing my glasses to work. I'm not allowed to," he reminded Gilbert, when the German complimented the frames on his face. Gilbert rolled his eyes and muttered, " _stupid_." Matthew chuckled and leant back in the passenger-seat with a tired sigh, enjoying the feel of the car's heat and the roughness of Gilbert's hand on his bare legs.

                Despite Matthew worrying that it was a huge inconvenience, Gilbert had been waiting to collect him after his shift at the club. "My boyfriend's not taking the fucking bus home," he said, disregarding the time, which was half-two in the morning, and ignoring Matthew's feeble protests. Matthew, who was secretly pleased by—and attracted to—the German's brash yet chivalrous nature. He couldn't deny that the downtown core scared him after dark, it always had; especially the district Club 69 was located in, but his fears seemed petty when Gilbert was near. He felt bad about the late-hour, but was too grateful for his boyfriend's stubbornness to argue.

                "Do you have to work over Christmas?" Gilbert asked, driving one-handed.

                "No, actually," Matthew replied. "Weird fact about Mikkel Densen: he _really_ likes Christmas. He completely closes the club and pays us all half-wages for two weeks while he takes his pets on holiday."

                "His pets—?"

                "Oh," Matthew laughed, "yeah, that's what we call his two favourites, Jaguar and Porsche. I don't know what their real names are," he added, anticipating Gilbert's next query. "I don't think anyone does, not even the Manager. Mikkel's really protective of them."

                "Where do they go?" Gilbert asked. "On holiday, I mean."

                Matthew shrugged. "I don't know. I've never been invited," he joked. "Somewhere in Denmark, maybe—?"

                Gilbert grunted, distracted.

                It was during this lull that Matthew finally took notice of his surroundings. He hadn't realized how long they had been driving for, too preoccupied—too happy—talking to his boyfriend, but the crowdedness of the city had fallen away, yielding to spacious properties with mature trees and wrought-iron fences. As the Mercedes slowed, leaving the quiet highway and easing into an old residential community, Matthew found himself admiring the pristine streets and old manor houses. Even at half-two in the morning, the place looked safe; the streets empty, because the residents were all asleep in their beds where they belonged.

                "Gil—?" he said, guessing the answer even before he asked: "Where are we?"

                Gilbert didn't reply until the Mercedes was parked in the driveway of a big, gated house. "My place," he said.

                Matthew stared at the house—bigger than the entire apartment-complex he lived in—and then at Gilbert. He had known that the Beilschmidt family was wealthy, but— _Holy shit_.

                "I'll take you back downtown if you want," Gilbert offered, "but... do you want to come in?"

                _Do you want to stay the night_? asked Gilbert's red eyes.

                Matthew smiled. "Yeah," he said. "I _really_ do."


	11. Ten

**EMIL**

Emil was alone on the fourth-level balcony, playing a handheld video-game, stuck on level six, when he suddenly heard a thump, followed by an angry, unintelligible curse.

                "Go on, Em," Mikkel had said earlier, dismissing him with a nudge. He had been about to entertain a potential business partner and didn't want Emil present for it. "It's going to be nothing but boring old men talking," he had said, sighing theatrically, as if he were selflessly shielding Emil from the drudgery.

                Emil had rolled his eyes and obeyed, glad to be excused as he left the security of Mikkel's private apartment, but now he wished he hadn't strayed so far.

                He stood abruptly when he heard the noise, then froze, becoming a pearly statue in his gossamer robes, thin as a willow bough.

                For a moment, he was scared. The safest thing to do was flee back inside, call for the guards, and retreat into the protective arms of his older brother, who would swiftly deal with the threat. It's what Emil had been told to do in a circumstance such as this—"Just call for help," Bjørn said, "don't risk yourself, you're too important."—but the spoiled youth had never been good at following the rules, too certain that someone else would always be there to protect him from killers and kidnappers and anyone else who threatened his safety (or dignity). Besides, he was an explorer by nature, too curious for caution, not unlike his older brother. (It was one of the things Mikkel loved about them.) So, all things considered, his fear was short-lived, and instead of fleeing the balcony he found himself creeping quietly to the edge.

                The wind clawed at his loose clothes as he tip-toed and the cold licked his skin, but he didn't flinch. Not until a face appeared suddenly out of the darkness mere inches from his own.

                " _Ah_ —!" they gasped in union.

                The intruder—a youth no older than he—lost his footing and disappeared.

                Emil held his breath, his heart pounding. It was silent for a moment, and he thought the boy had fallen to his death, but soon his jet-black head reappeared.

                " _Fuck_!" the boy whispered, breathing hard as he draped himself securely over the railing. He looked like a lanky shadow, black from head-to-toe; everything black—clothes, hair, eyes—except for his tawny skin and the flash of white teeth in a rueful grin. "A little warning next time, snowflake," he said.

                Emil stared at him, perplexed.

                "What the fuck are you doing?" he asked tactlessly.

                "A job," said the boy, readjusting his grasp. His fingers were thin, but callused. "This _is_ Club 69, right? 'Cause if not, my brother's going to kill me." 

                Emil didn't answer. Instead, he searched his mental-index, but couldn't place the boy's face. He didn't know many Chinese people. He didn't know many people, period.

                "Who's your brother?" he asked.

                The boy's grin became cat-like, like his dark almond eyes. He jerked his head, inviting Emil to come closer. "My pocket," he said.

                Emil crossed his arms. "I'm not putting my hand in your pocket," he said, unimpressed.

                As if a dozen perverts hadn't tried that trick before. " _I've got something for you_ , _sweetheart_ , _but it's in my pocket_ ," they would say, and then wink suggestively. They had been doing it since he was a child, and Emil had learnt quickly after the first time not to accept.

                The boy chuckled. "It's not like that, I promise. It's just a letter—in my left breast-pocket," he added in good-faith.

                Emil levelled a stare at him in distrust.

                "Oh, come on, snowflake, help me out here!" he pleaded, afraid to let go of the balcony. "I have to deliver this letter to Densen, or my brother will lynch me! You can do it. You're one of his pets, right? You must be," he mused, his voice dropping an octave in clumsy seduction. "You're way too gorgeous not to be.

                " _Please_ —?" he whined when Emil didn't budge. He batted his eyelashes dramatically, so black they looked like kohl.

                "No."

                Emil started to walk away, but he stopped when the boy blurted:

                "If you help me, I'll show you how to get the jewel to clear level six!"

                Emil turned back slowly, the video-game still in his hand. "There are no jewels in level six," he said, selfishly taking the bait.

                The boy nodded sagely. "There's one," he said. "And you can't clear level six without it. Believe me, I've tried. If you deliver this letter to Densen for me, I'll show you where it is."

                Emil narrowed his eyes. "Or, I could just push you," he threatened, "and pretend that you were never here."

                "Go ahead," the boy shrugged, calling his bluff, "but you'll never clear level six without the jewel."

                Emil chewed on the boy's exchange for a minute, playing tug-o-war with himself. If he delivered the letter, he would be asked where he got it from, and forced to suffer a lecture—or worse—for being careless. He was forbidden from talking to anyone outside of Mikkel's inner-circle, and had been told time and again not to lounge on the balcony without a chaperone (i.e. guard). Bjørn would be angry that Emil had placed himself in danger. ( _Pft_ , _what danger_? he thought, scrutinizing the Chinese boy.) And Mikkel—well, if Mikkel was feeling uncharitable today, the black-eyed boy wouldn't live to see sunrise. The Dane would send a piece of him—a finger, or ear—back to his employer as a warning never to send a messenger again. " _Cowards_ ," Mikkel thought of leaders who would not face him directly. " _If you want something from me_ , _then have the balls to ask for it yourself_!" The boy's life was at risk just being there, and not only because he was clinging to the balcony four stories up. If Mikkel knew that he had scaled the building in an attempt to sneak in; if he knew he was talking to Emil, asking favours from the club owner's pet...

                _I should just walk away_ , he knew. _It's_ _better for us both_.

                But he really, _really_ wanted to clear level six.

                "Fine," he grudgingly agreed.

                "You're the worst messenger I've ever met," he added, walking back to the edge and carefully slipping a hand into the boy's inner-pocket, accidentally brushing his collarbone. His skin was like melted caramel, warm and smooth.

                " _Aiyah_!" The boy wriggled. "Your hands are ice-fucking-cold!"

                Emil rolled his eyes and removed the letter. "Tell me now," he demanded. "Where's the jewel?"

                "Help me up," the boy countered, hooking his foot over the railing.

                Emil took his reaching hand and pulled.

                "Thanks—" said the boy, but he was cut-off abruptly. His foot slipped and he fell forward, grabbing at Emil in reflex. Emil bowed back against the weight of the boy's upper-body, which draped over him in a kind of awkward hug, and whose groping hands tugged down on the Icelander's clothes. When he jerked up, they were so close together that he nearly head-butted Emil, but instead they brushed noses.

                In reflex, Emil shrank back, his heart pounding harder than before.

                "Uh..." said the boy, at a loss. His warm hands felt heavy on Emil's naked shoulders. "That was an accident," he clarified nervously.

                Emil nodded. "Let me go," he said, untangling himself. He threw a cautious look behind him, hoping that no one had seen.

                The boy released him and stepped back. Emil tugged up his clothes and collected his game from where it had fallen.

                "Show me where the jewel is," he ordered, pressing it into the boy's hands.

                He took it, effortlessly graceful now that he was on solid-ground. Again, he reminded Emil of a cat. His reedy figure slouched against the railing in a nonchalant way that invited Emil to come closer to watch.

                Emil did so, but hesitantly, weary of the boy, and suddenly acutely aware that he was alone with a stranger, nonthreatening or not.

                "Come here," the boy verbally repeated, a trifle impatient. He, too, seemed to acknowledge the danger he had placed himself in. "Okay, let's see... level six," he muttered, angling his body so they could both share the small screen. "Here we go, jump this... dodge that... go through here..." His fingers expertly manipulated the controls, taking Emil's avatar on a twisted journey into the underbelly of a digital cavern. It was quite impressive to a fellow gamer, but Emil was not about to compliment him, nor acknowledge the yearning he had always had for a friend to play games with. It was lonely having a family so much older than he— _an only child of three_ , they called him—but he tried to ignore that, too.

                _I wonder what other secrets he knows_? he thought greedily, peaking sideways at the boy's concentrated face. _I wonder if he'd tell me more if I_ —

                "I'm Li, by the way," the boy said, glancing quickly at Emil, then back to the game. He waited a moment, then mock-replied when Emil didn't:

                " _Hi_ , _Li. Nice to meet you_. _My gosh_ , _you're just so cool and handsome and talented_ , _I'm so glad you crawled onto my balcony_ —"

                "Stop that," Emil whacked his arm.

                "Then tell me your name," Li said, a playful curl to his lips.

                "Porsche."

                Li rolled his eyes. "That's not a name, it's an alias."

                "It's all you're getting," Emil replied stubbornly. "Take it or leave it, I don't really care."

                "Nah, I think I'll just call you snowflake," Li teased.

                Emil frowned in displeasure, but he didn't argue. His violet eyes were fixed on the game.

                "If you go into this chamber here... no, wait... yeah, it's here," Li narrated. His fingers flew over the controls, making the avatar execute an unnecessarily complex stunt to reach a glowing puzzle-board. He handed the game back to Emil. "Solve the puzzle and you'll win the jewel."

                "You're sure—?"

                Li cocked an eyebrow in bemusement, a wordless way of saying: _You doubt my legendary skills_? _For shame_!

                "Now," he added, collecting the letter. Taking liberties, he slipped it into Emil's gaping pocket. "Just give that to Densen for me, and I'll— _Hey_!" he snapped, his smile falling when Emil removed it and ripped the envelope open. "You can't read it! It's supposed to be for Densen, not—"

                Emil ignored him. The letter contained a private business proposal from someone called Ivan Braginsky. He didn't know the name, but that wasn't uncommon. Mikkel's affairs were usually too boring to attract the youth's fickle attention. But the deal, itself, was rather interesting. And risky. If Mikkel accepted and the police found out, it would put Emil's whole family in jeopardy. He wondered if Li had read the letter, too, but judging by the horrified look on his face, Emil guessed not. He folded the letter back into its envelope, pocketed it, and started to walk away.

                "So... that's it?" Li called. "I should just leave now? No thank-you? No best regards? No passionate goodbye kiss? That's cold, snowflake!"

                Emil's step slowed, his back to Li. He smiled in secret, then raised his middle-finger in farewell and slipped inside.

* * *

**LI**

 Li chuckled to himself as he watched the violet-eyed boy disappear.

                _Say what you want about Mikkel Densen_ , he thought, grinning, _but the guy's got great taste._

* * *

**EMIL**

Emil waltzed past the guards into a fashionably minimalist parlour on the fourth-level, opposite Mikkel's apartment, where the Dane was hosting a prospective business partner. The guards wouldn't dare lay a hand on him to stop him, even if it was a private meeting, and the Icelander wasn't above exploiting his position to get what he wanted. A single shriek from Emil would summon Mikkel's wrath, which is something no one wanted.

                Because of that, Emil was unafraid and he didn't hesitate as he crossed the threshold into the parlour, which was crowded with a gaggle of richly dressed thugs. The boss was a type typical of the seedy underworld: young and impulsive, the kind who thought money would solve everything; so eager to make a name for himself that he failed to read subtleties; and too cloying in his praise to identify the true balance of power. _Pft_ , _he's a new blood_ , Emil thought snidely. If the man's self-entitled attitude wasn't telling enough, then his clothes—and gaudy accessories—would have been, all blatant displays of wealth. _This one's a leech_ , he knew, ignoring the man's imagined power and seeing only his starving eyes.

                In comparison, Mikkel looked like a lazy college student who had forgotten to shave. He was dressed like a greaser in a pair of torn blue-jeans and a sleeveless white t-shirt—which served the dual purpose of being comfortable _and_ showing-off his muscles—though he would have looked just as natural wearing a slogan that said something like: _Save the Turtles_! His relaxed posture and bored expression made Bjørn look even more elegant, like a rare glass doll standing behind him, his elbows poised on the back of the couch Mikkel was sprawled on.

                Everyone who saw them said that Bjørn and Emil looked uncannily similar—the elder only taller and curvier than the younger—but, secretly, Emil could only wish he looked so beautiful. They may have had the same genes, the same features and colouring, but there was something in the way Bjørn moved and arranged his body and expression (or lack thereof) that Emil knew he could never mimic, no matter how long he practised in the mirror. His brother was like a leopard—a _jaguar_ —a fierce and beguiling creature, but Emil was still just a kitten.

                He was about to interrupt the new-blood's speech to deliver the letter to Mikkel—the Dane wouldn't care; in fact, he yawned in boredom—but he stopped abruptly.

                Everyone did. All of Mikkel's thugs sucked in a collective gasp, because the man, the new-blood, had grabbed Bjørn's wrist.

                Bjørn had leant forward to reach the contract laying on the coffee-table, but the fool had _grabbed_ him.

                _Oh_ , _fuck_.

                Emil's eyes went to Mikkel, who had stiffened mid-yawn.

                " _Let him go_!" someone whispered urgently.

                " _Apologize_ , _quick_!" said someone else.

                But the new-blood ignored the advice.

                "This contract is private, for your eyes only," he said to Mikkel, releasing Bjørn with a dismissive sneer. "It's not for—"

                "Did you just touch my Jaguar?" Mikkel interrupted, his voice a low growl.

                The new-blood tensed; so did everyone else. Mikkel's presence felt like the electrified calm before a storm. Emil backed away, glad he hadn't been spotted.

                "I apologize," the man said, polite but insincere. His confusion was plain; he didn't understand what blunder he had made, but the violent change in Mikkel's demeanour was making him nervous. His face had paled and he was sweating, afraid that the mistake would cost him his deal. Impatient, now, he said: "Can we please just agree on the—"

                Mikkel stood, his muscles clenched, his hands fisted at his sides. "Do I come into _your_ home and touch _your_ things?" It was a rhetorical question, but he demanded an answer. " _Do I_?"

                "N-n-no! I just—"

                The new-blood stood, too, in a futile attempt to defend himself. He looked like a prepubescent teenager next to the formidable Dane.

                "Fine," he agreed, raising his voice to match Mikkel's volume if not pitch. "He's yours, I get it. I won't touch him again. Now, can we please just sign the contract and be done with this— _What the fuck_?" he shirked, watching in abject horror as Mikkel tore the contract into half-a-dozen pieces.

                " _Get out_ ," he said, a warning in his tone.

                A warning the new-blood failed to heed.

                "You're going to regret that!" he spat, aghast. "You just lost a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and for what—? 'Cause I touched your fucking whore—"

                Emil clapped his hands to his mouth to stifle a yelp.

                Mikkel's fist had thrust forward with all of the speed and terrible strength of a bear claw, serving the man a blow that bloodied his face and knocked him down. But the Dane wasn't done. He grabbed the new-blood's throat and hauled him up, squeezing, forcing him to his knees. And nobody moved to stop him. Not Mikkel's thugs, and not the new-blood's either. No one was fool enough, nor brave enough, to tell Mikkel "no".

                "Apologize to my Jaguar," he said darkly, dragging the man to Bjørn's feet.

                The new-blood gasped, his eyes bulging, his face awash with saliva and blood, but Bjørn's serene expression was unchanged. He might have been sympathetic to or disgusted by the display, it was any stranger's guess. He stood perfectly still, waiting. Only Emil saw the discrete curl of his lips. A smile.

                " _Apologize_!" Mikkel ordered. " _Apologize before I put your teeth through the back of your fucking head_!"

                "I-I-I-I'm sorry!" the new-blood choked. "I—"

                " _Get out_."

                Mikkel threw him as if the man's proximity offended him; he hit the floor with a crack.

                " _All of you_ , _get out_!" the Dane yelled.

                No one paid attention to Emil as they hurried to comply. The new-blood's men carried him out behind the stampede of Mikkel's men, who were conditioned to act without hesitance. If Mikkel had known Emil was there in the crush, getting shoved and dragged along, he would have been furious, but he didn't see. He only had eyes for Bjørn, now, which was better. Safer. Bjørn wrapped his arms around Mikkel's torso from behind, pressing himself close, and angled his head to kiss Mikkel's neck. Mikkel's blue eyes clouded with lust as he turned and groped Bjørn, lifting him right off his feet, pushing the Norwegian's robe up, up, up his thighs until he was exposed. Their lips met in a way that was more attack than tenderness, and Mikkel fell down on top of Bjørn on the couch. Emil took that as his cue to get the fuck out.

                He pocketed Li's letter—Ivan's letter—and fled to his bedroom.


	12. Eleven

**MATTHEW**

The heavy weight beside Matthew shifted the bed-sheets, the body-heat receding. His mind was still foggy with sleep as he peeled open his eyes, seeing only black shapes in the dark. " _Mm_ , _Gil_?" he asked the tall, lean shadow looming at the bed's edge. He reached out and grazed the German's spine, a meek attempt to stop him rising.

                "Sorry, _schatzi_ ," Gilbert's voice rasped in the quiet of early-morning. He twisted and leant down, pressing his lips to Matthew's head. "I didn't mean to wake you."

                "What time is it?"

                "Seven. I have to go to work."

                "Oh." Matthew started to rise, too, pushing himself onto strained elbows, his body still tender and weak with sleep. "Okay," he said, "I'll get dressed. You can drop me at the metro station on your way—"

                Gilbert's hands—a labourer's hands, long fingers callused and corded with strength; hands that had touched him, stroked him, and held firm as they manipulated the boy's body to take what he wanted—pressed gently down on his boyfriend's shoulders, preventing him from rising. "No, no," he said, a grin in his tone. "Just stay here, Matt, I'll be back by three."

                Matthew hesitated. He wanted to stay. Every nerve in his body was ready to collapse back into the bedding and sink into oblivion, but he had never been to Gilbert's house before. He had not been properly introduced to the other occupants—"my brother's away," Gilbert had said last night, urging Matthew upstairs—or seen anything beyond the entrance hall, stairs, second-level corridor, and Gilbert's bedroom, all of which surmounted to blurry, geometric shapes in the darkness. Surveying the decor had not been a priority with Gilbert's groping hands undressing him last night.

                "Stay here," Gilbert repeated, sensing Matthew's worries. He brushed aside a curl. "Sleep-in as long as you want, take a nice hot shower, have lunch, watch T.V., whatever you want, Mattie," he purred, close enough to kiss. "I'll only be gone for seven hours, and you'll probably be asleep for four of them," he teased.

                Matthew smiled. "Are you sure it's okay?"

                "Yes," Gilbert whispered against Matthew's swollen lips. "More than okay. I like knowing that you'll be here waiting for me."

                Matthew lifted his head an inch and kissed his boyfriend. "Okay."

* * *

The next time Matthew woke, it was because a gust of hot, wet breath was panting on his face. He opened his eyes and found himself nose-to-nose with a long snout and a pair of big brown eyes.

                " _Ah_!"

                The dog's ears perked and it stood, it's tail wagging anxiously. It barked once, twice. _Who are you_? it seemed to ask. _Why are you in my master's bed_?

                Matthew was curled up against the headboard, his legs pulled to his chest, away from the dog's muzzle, when another large canine trotted into the bedroom. It, too, barked loudly when it spotted the boy, then turned in a circle and leapt onto the bed. A moment later, a flood of aggressive German filled the room and the barking ceased.

                " _Down_!" the man ordered, stabbing a meaty finger at the floor. It was a moment before he saw Matthew, and froze in surprise. "Oh," he said, at a loss. The dogs retreated to his sides, but their brown eyes were still trained on the intruder.

                Matthew clutched the bed-sheet to himself. In a rush, he said: "I'm sorry, Gil said I could stay—"

                "I'm sorry," the man said simultaneously, "I didn't realize Gil had a... guest."

                The man's sky-blue eyes went automatically to the floor, seeing pieces of discarded clothes, then back to the dishevelled boy. Matthew felt the heat rise in his cheeks.

                "Matthew," he said, blushing as well. "You're Matthew, Gil's boyfriend? I'm Ludwig, his brother." Habitually, he offered a hand in greeting, but Matthew merely stared at it. "Oh!"Ludwig pulled quickly back, realizing too late that touching his brother's naked boyfriend might be impolite. "I'm sorry," he repeated, backing away. "I didn't mean to..."

                He let the statement hang, bobbed his head, then herded the excited dogs out the door, which he then closed.

                Matthew sank down into the bedding, mortified by the scene. Looking the part of someone's mistress wasn't how he had wanted to meet one of the most powerful families in the city.

                It took willpower to drag himself out of bed and into the large en suite, where a steaming-hot shower eased the aches from his body. As instructed, he stayed there for a long time, letting the water run as his mind raced, trying to put together a speech—an explanation—to tell Ludwig when they met again downstairs. Because, of course, he had to go downstairs now and pretend to be normal, like the unexpected interruption hadn't rattled him; like he wasn't regretting the awful first-impression he had made. A part of him wanted to crawl back into bed, but he ignored it. He wouldn't hide like a child; he would be mature about it, like an adult. _Ludwig knows that Gil brought me here to have sex_ , _it's no big deal_ , he thought, even as his heart pounded. He stepped out of the glass shower onto ceramic tiles and wrapped himself in a huge terrycloth towel. _People do this all the time. And he called me Gil's boyfriend_ , _so he knows I'm not a prostitute_. He took comfort in that fact as he searched Gilbert's wardrobe for clothes. (He wouldn't put his uniform back on. What if Gilbert hadn't told Ludwig where Matthew worked?) He chose dark drawstring sweatpants, which he knotted at his waist, then pushed the tapered ankles to his knees; and a football-related t-shirt with German print on the front. Then he looked at his reflection in a standing mirror and saw that the relaxed fit of the t-shirt left a good bit of bruised skin exposed, so he grabbed a black zip-up hoodie to hide it. He wished he could leave his hair down, but it was wet and unruly, so he put it up. The cheap frames of his glasses perched on his nose.

                _You look like a high-school sleepover_ , Lovino's voice criticized in his head, but Matthew didn't care (much). As long as the evidence of sex and abuse was hidden, the ensemble did its job.

                _Right_ , _this is fine. Just be normal. I'm sure we'll both laugh about this later_ , he hoped, and left the safety of Gilbert's bedroom.

                He walked into two sitting-rooms—one of which had a huge fireplace and floor-to-ceiling windows, giving a beautiful view of the Beilschmidt's back-garden—before he found the kitchen, where Ludwig was reading a take-away menu.

                He glanced up in acknowledgement when Matthew entered. "Are you hungry? Do you like Italian?" he asked.

                The mechanic politeness of his words revealed his discomfort, and didn't inspire self-confidence in Matthew.

                He nodded coyly in reply and sat on a high stool at the breakfast bar, waiting while Ludwig placed the order, destroying Italy's culinary language as he did.

                "I'm sorry, again," Matthew said when the call ended. He tried for a casual tone, but embarrassment cowed him and he couldn't meet Ludwig's sky-blue eyes. "I didn't mean to invade your home. I never would've stayed if I had known you were here."

                _Was he here last night_ , _too_? _Did he—hear us_? The couple hadn't exactly been quiet. At one point, one of the dogs had whined at the closed bedroom door, thinking something was amiss inside.

                "Gil said that you were away for work," he explained, blushing redder.

                "I was," Ludwig replied. "But we finished early yesterday, so I drove back late last night. I'd rather not stay in a hotel if I don't have to. I would've, though, if Gil had told me his plans. He, uh... didn't mention you would be here."

                "It was kind of spontaneous."

                "Of course it was," Ludwig sighed in belated exasperation, as if he should have expected as much from his brother. "Gil's a very _spontaneous_ person. He'll plan something a month in advance, then forget it all in a moment."

                Matthew smiled, secretly endeared by Gilbert's impulsiveness. "Yes," he agreed.

                Ludwig caught Matthew's eye and his rigid tone softened. "So we'll blame this all on Gil then?"

                "Yes," Matthew repeated, laughing.

                "I'm Ludwig Beilschmidt," Ludwig introduced himself for the second time, reaching across the countertop to shake Matthew's hand.

                Matthew took it. "Matt Kirkland, it's a pleasure to finally meet you."

                "And you. It's nice to put a face to a name. Gil talks about you a lot," Ludwig added, a gentle curl to his lips.

                "All good things, I hope?" Matthew asked. His tone was a joke, but his words were a genuine inquiry. He was desperate to know what Gilbert had told Ludwig. Did Ludwig know about Matthew's situation, his profession? Did the younger Beilschmidt know that his brother was dating an impoverished street-urchin from the East-End?

                _I have to be careful about what I say to him_. _I don't want to embarrass Gil._

                But Ludwig's reply was candid, revealing his ignorance. "Good things are all there is, as far as I've heard," he said.

                Despite knowing it was a lie, Matthew blushed. Had Gilbert really said so many nice things to Ludwig about him? He smiled.

                "The food will be delivered soon," Ludwig said, changing the subject. "It's a nice day. Let's eat in the garden.

                "And I think I'd better introduce you to the dogs," he added in afterthought. "I can't believe Gil didn't. He's not usually so careless."

                "He was... distracted last night," Matthew admitted, following Ludwig.

                At the door, Ludwig stopped and looked back at Matthew, who helplessly shrugged. "I bet," he chuckled.

* * *

  **LOVINO**

Let's never do breakfast again," Lovino bemoaned the early-hour, wiping his hands down his face as Antonio received his change from the cashier. The clock on the wall read half-past eight o'clock.

                "Deal," Antonio agreed, dropping the change into a tips jar. "Lunch only from now on... unless it's breakfast in bed," he added, wiggling his eyebrows.

                Lovino frowned. "Tonio, I haven't had nearly enough coffee to tolerate your lame innuendos," he warned.

                " _Lame_?"

                "It _was_ sweet, though," Lovino admitted, taking Antonio's hand as they left the tiny diner. He was, of course, referring to Antonio's good-morning call, showing-up unannounced at seven o'clock to invite his boyfriend to an early breakfast before he went to work. "I really like that you do things like this," he said softer, smiling, "even if it does turn out to be a _horrible_ idea."

                "It was a completely selfish idea, I promise," Antonio teased. "I just wanted to see you before work, Lovi."

                At the metro station, he leant down to kiss Lovino in goodbye. Lovino indulgently kissed him back, neither of them caring that they were disturbing the flow of pedestrian traffic, then he turned, dropped a few coins into the stiff turnstile, and pushed into the underground.

                "Well—? Are you coming?" he asked, throwing a playful look back at Antonio's confusion. "You're going to be late if you don't hurry, Green Eyes."

                "Are you sure?" Antonio said, following him. "You hate the metro at rush-hour."

                " _Ugh_ , more than anything," Lovino agreed. He leant into Antonio's side as they descended the steps to the platform, giving a wordless order. Antonio—adept at reading the Italian's body-language—wrapped an arm around his waist. "Nothing is good this fucking early," he whined, then looked up at Antonio, and smiled: "Except, maybe, seeing your face. I kind of like that."

                "Subjecting yourself to rush-hour traffic just to see my humble face—? Oh, Lovi! This must be what true love feels like!" Antonio overdramatized, his hand flung skyward like a stage-actor.

                Lovino pinched him. "Don't push it. I'm still lacking caffeine; I'm obviously delusional."

                In truth, it was now too cold in the bleak early-morning for Antonio to walk to work. It was too cold outside, period, said the Spaniard and Italian, who took abuse for being "the first casualties of winter" according to a laughing Gilbert. (Though Francis couldn't keep still in cold weather either, and pranced from foot-to-foot in discomfort. He was just less vocal about it than Antonio and Lovino. Arthur was always chilled, regardless of temperature, but kept a stiff upper-lip and pretended not to be. And Matthew still wandered everywhere without a coat. _No comment_ , Lovino thought in jealous disbelief.) The problem was, Lovino knew that Antonio hated the metro. The steely _whoosh_ of train carriages whizzing through dark, underground tunnels made him extremely uneasy, and Lovino didn't like him taking it alone, so he accompanied his boyfriend whenever he could. It was a mercifully short ride and much cheaper than a taxi-cab.

                (Gilbert had offered to drive Antonio to work every morning, but the Spaniard told Lovino he had declined for two reasons: firstly, he didn't want to inconvenience his friend, who lived in the opposite direction; and secondly, he hated mornings as much as Lovino and couldn't stomach the thought of Gilbert waking him up before sunrise and barking at him to hurry. Antonio knew he wasn't a punctual man; he had accepted it. And he rather liked the rapport they had going, wherein he was late every day and Gilbert pretended not to notice.)

                So, despite the crush of rush-hour, Antonio and Lovino boarded the train carriage when it squealed to a halt. As usual, standing-room was their only option, as neither of them were elderly, injured, or pregnant. Antonio reached up and grabbed the overhead handrail, and Lovino leant into him and locked his arms around the Spaniard's back. He rested his head on Antonio's chest and closed his eyes, half-asleep on his feet as the carriage jostled. He felt the racing beat of Antonio's heart and hugged him closer in comfort.

                _It's okay_ , _Tonio_ , he tried to mutely say. _I'm here with you_ , _you're okay._

                The train stopped, but Antonio didn't let go of Lovino's hand until they had once again breached the surface.

                "Thanks," he said quietly.

                They walked together to the police department, where Lovino pushed himself onto his toes to give Antonio a kiss.

                "Hey," Antonio said, ignoring his colleagues, who hurried passed them, "the department's Christmas Gala is this weekend. It's a big fundraiser, lots of snooty rich people; boring orchestra music; lots of over and undercooked food—"

                "If you ever lose your job as a detective, know that you have a future in sales," Lovino joked.

                Antonio smiled. "Do you want to go with me?"

                "Sure."

                "Are you certain? It's a really big event," Antonio reiterated. "Representatives from all of the city's wealthiest families will be there. Gil's family always goes. I wouldn't want you to feel uncomfortable if _your_ family, uh..."

                Antonio let the sentence hang in uncertainty. Lovino had implied his family's status, but had not been brave enough yet to tell his boyfriend _which_ bloodline he belonged to ( _had_ belonged to—past tense; such was the nature of disownment). He had intentionally never told Antonio his surname, and Antonio had never pried (or, out of respect, searched the police database).

                "It's fine," he said, now. "My family donates every year, but they never attend."

                "Okay, as long as you're sure—? Good," Antonio sighed in relief. "It'll be a much better night if you're there."

                "Who did you take last year?" Lovino asked, determined to keep his expression void of envy no matter who the Spaniard named, but he snorted in laughter when Antonio said:

                "Fran. All the guests thought it was a joke and we let them. We milked it. We danced; I let him feed me hor d'oeuvres all evening." Lovino rolled his eyes. "The Chief lectured us afterward for not taking the fundraiser seriously. He thought we were just having a laugh, but we weren't. We wanted to go together to be each other's shields. We've done it every year. The Gala... well, it's not a fun thing to attend when everyone knows you're the grunt workers, you know? It feels like charity... which technically it is, but you understand what I mean. Fran and I hate the fucking Gala. Just wait and see for yourself, Lovi. It's the most pretentious thing you've ever been to."

                _Doubtful_ , Lovino thought. He said: "Don't worry, Green Eyes, I'll make you look good."

                "Oh, yes you will," Antonio agreed, purring the words. "They're all going to be dead-jealous of me this year, waltzing in with the most beautiful date in the world."

                "Mm, flattery," Lovino hummed. "I love it.

                "Now, hurry up." He pecked Antonio's lips, then pushed him away. "You're already late, Detective Carriedo."

                 "Love you, Ferrari!"  Antonio hollered, then leapt the steps and ran inside, chased the whole way by Lovino's lewd protests.

                "What are you looking at?" Lovino snapped at a pedestrian, who was staring in disapproval. The man moved quickly along. Lovino shivered without Antonio's wind-block, but he pulled off his gloves to type his boyfriend a text:

                LOVE YOU, TONIO. HAVE A GOOD DAY. ♥

* * *

**GILBERT**

 Gilbert was in the break-room when his cell-phone vibrated with a text. It was from Ludwig:

                A LITTLE WARNING NEXT TIME, it said.

                U MET MATT? he texted in reply.

                YES

                He waited, unsure what to type next. Suddenly, he regretted not taking the day off. If he had, he would have been there to introduce his boyfriend to his brother and they could have spent the day together. Gilbert hoped that Ludwig hadn't spooked Matthew. His brother was a slave to routine and did not appreciate unexpected changes. He could be rather intimidating when he was flustered or frustrated and was inclined to take it out on those around him. (The Beilschmidt family was not known for their patience.) _Sorry_ , _Matt_ , he thought, feeling guilty about the situation he had left Matthew in, and even guiltier for hoping that he kept his personal life a secret. Gilbert had told his brother a lot about Matthew since they had started dating, but there were some details he had intentionally omitted. It wasn't that he didn't trust Ludwig, but if Gilbert had learnt anything working as a detective, it was that the more people who knew a secret, the less likely it would stay a secret, and the last thing he wanted was his family getting involved in his business.

                And yet, his fingers stabbed at his cell-phone, typing a single, impatient question:

                AND?

                There was no reversing time to prevent Ludwig and Matthew meeting, and now that they had Gilbert wanted to know what his brother thought of the boy. Nervously, he waited.

               VERY CUTE

               VERY SWEET

               THE DOGS LIKE HIM, Ludwig wrote in succession.

                Gilbert was glad to read approval in Ludwig's words. He relaxed, then smiled when he read the last message:

                WELL DONE, GIL

                He was still smiling when another text arrived. It was from Antonio, and it said:

                WARNING!!! CHIEF WANTS TO SEE YOU. :'( RIP GIL x_x

                He sighed and forced himself up, feeling the acute return of fatigue. He was operating on barely four hours of sleep thanks to his nocturnal decisions. _Worth it_ , he reminded himself, seeing Matthew in his memory. _I'll sleep when I'm dead._ He grabbed the report he had completed yesterday, straightened his tie, and knocked on the Chief's door.

                "Sergeant Beilschmidt, come in."

                "Chief," he said, closing the door behind him. He presented the report.

                "I like you, Beilschmidt," the Chief nodded approvingly, taking the report. "I like that I don't have to tell you what I want, you just do it. You've got good instincts, kid."

                "I've had a lot of practice getting things wrong, sir," Gilbert jested.

                The Chief cocked an eyebrow. "Your father? He's a difficult man to impress," he agreed, "but he raised a good kid. Sit down.

                "You're doing good work," he said once Gilbert was sitting. "I had doubts about assigning your team the Club 69 case, but I'm glad I did. I never expected it would be easy to catch Densen, but if anyone's going to do it, it's going to be you."

                "Sir, Francis and Antonio are working just as hard—"

                "No, they're not," the Chief dismissed. "Let's be frank, Bonnefoi and Carriedo have limited uses in this field. Don't get me wrong, they're good at solving puzzles," he added, noticing Gilbert's frown, "and they care about people, which is important, but they need supervision. I don't trust either of them to play by the rules otherwise. Their history makes them both unpredictable—you know what I'm talking about. They make fine detectives, but they're not leaders. They don't have the discipline or the drive to climb higher. Not like you."

                "Sir—?"

                "I've recommended you for a promotion, Beilschmidt. The brass has got their eyes on you, and they like what they see. Close the Club 69 case and it's yours, guaranteed."

                Gilbert couldn't fight the giddy smile that stole over his face. He reached forward and shook the Chief's hand. "Thank-you, sir. I won't let you down."

                "I know you won't. You're a good kid, Beilschmidt. And a good detective. Keep it up and you'll make Chief Police Commissioner someday."

                "That's the goal," Gilbert agreed.

                "I'm glad to hear it," the Chief smiled. "You've got way too much potential to waste. You're smart, kid, and I think you understand the sacrifices you'll have to make. It's important to remember the politics involved in the work we do."

                Gilbert had stood to leave, but stopped. "Politics?" he asked.

                The Chief folded his hands. "You know what I'm talking about," he said seriously. "You've got a steep slope to climb if you want to achieve your goal; you have to take everything into consideration, not just your work as a police detective. In order to _be_ the best, you have to _beat_ the best. You've got to prove you're worth the promotions. It's not enough just to have good case statistics and arrest numbers. The brass is watching you," he emphasized, "scrutinizing everything to determine whether or not you're fit for such an important, _public_ position. How you present yourself is key: how you look, how you speak, how you stand. They'll look at your background, your family, who your friends are, who you're dating."

                Gilbert stiffened. "Who I'm... dating? Does that really matter?" he asked needlessly. (He knew it mattered, he just wished it didn't.)

                "It's unfair," the Chief acknowledged, then shrugged, "but so is the world. I hate to say it, but who you choose as a partner is going to have a huge impact on your future. It could make or break your chances of getting promoted. You're not married, are you? I didn't think so," he continued when Gilbert shook his head. "Well, here's my advice: Get married," he said bluntly, "and do it before you're thirty if possible, because the percentage of single officers who get promoted is really low. The brass will look at who you ally yourself with, so choose someone respectable, from a good family with good connections—wealthy, and good-looking if you can manage it. Someone who can dominate the social scene while you work the political; someone who hosts charities and cocktail parties, understand? Because of your family's reputation, you're in a good position to choose an impressive partner, so don't waste it. The person you choose is going to affect how the department, the press... fuck, how the whole city sees you, so make it count.

                " _Are_ you seeing someone right now?" he asked when Gilbert didn't speak.

                Gilbert's throat felt suddenly dry, the proud smile wiped from his face. He forced his head up, but he couldn't meet the older man's eyes. "No, sir."

                "Well, hurry and find someone," the Chief said, "because it won't look good if you attend the Christmas Gala alone."

                Gilbert nodded. "Yes, sir."

                As he walked back to his desk, he pulled out his cell-phone and re-read Ludwig's supportive texts. _Very cute. Very sweet. The dogs like him_ , he had said about Matthew. But while that was high-praise coming from Ludwig—who valued the dogs' opinions more than his fellow human-beings'—it wouldn't mean a damn thing to the people Gilbert needed to impress. He wondered if it would mean anything to his own family even, especially his father, who's goal it was to see them all succeed.

                One of Gilbert's cousins was studying to become a surgeon and dating a popular Japanese actor; another was a revered concert pianist who had married a lawyer; and his brother—only twenty-five-years-old—was already being groomed to take over Beilschmidt Senior's company for when the old man retired. If Gilbert didn't become the Chief of Police, he would be a disappointment to his father and a mark of failure upon generations of his family's prestigious reputation (descended from Teutonic knights, he liked to brag).

                They had already suffered the stain of one lost potential, one scathing disappointment. Gilbert didn't want to be the second.

                He didn't want to let Matthew go, but he also knew that a teenage nobody from the East-End wasn't going to help him achieve his goals, no matter how cute and sweet he was. As much as he hated to admit it, the Chief's warning was true.

                _Fucking politics._

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Arthur stood on the busy sidewalk in front of the police department, torn between stepping inside and fleeing down the street. He had to decide soon, or someone would notice his conspicuous loitering. Bundled into a tartan overcoat, a threadbare wool scarf, fingerless gloves, and footwear that was inappropriate for winter weather, he resembled the homeless who wandered the downtown streets, besmirching the city uptown's polished reputation. The last thing he wanted was to be confused for a drifter and asked to leave. Or worse, given charity.

                He clutched the expensive watch in his coat pocket, the one he had nicked from a drunk club patron; the one his landlord had refused to accept as collateral; the one the pawnbroker had refused to buy. It was dead-weight if he couldn't turn it into cash, because neither Ivan nor Mikkel would be paid in trinkets.

                He lifted his eyes, again, to the tall blue-painted doors. Beyond them, Francis was working. All Arthur had to do was step inside and ask to see Detective Bonnefoi, then say the three little words he had never spoken aloud in his entire life:

                _Please help me._

                Francis would do it; Arthur knew he would. Francis would take Arthur—and Matthew and Lovino—under his professional protection, just like he had promised. But then what? What could a single, underpaid police detective do against the wrath of Ivan's retribution? And Mikkel—? He didn't want to think about what Mikkel could—would—do if Arthur ratted on him to the authorities. According to Francis, the police had been trying to incarcerate Mikkel Densen for several years. Arthur was a fool if he thought his meek testimony—the testimony of a liar and thief—would change that. If he talked and Ivan and Mikkel walked free, they would destroy him, his friends, and the kind-hearted detective who had tried to make a difference. Arthur would lose everyone he cared about.

                "Arthur?"

                Arthur startled. He had been expecting an address: " _Hey_ , _you_!" or " _Move along_!" but he hadn't expected to hear his given-name.

                "What are you doing here?" Gilbert asked, descending the steps, the blue doors swinging closed behind him.

                "Oh, nothing. I was just paying a parking ticket," Arthur blurted.

                Gilbert frowned. "You don't have a car."

                "An old ticket," Arthur floundered, stuffing his hands further into this deep, tartan pockets.

                Gilbert's gloveless hands hung casually from his leather jacket. "You know," he said, disappointed, "I had you pegged for a better liar."

                "I usually am," Arthur admitted, deflating. "I just... I have a lot on my mind."

                Gilbert's red eyes scrutinized him for a moment longer, then he consulted his wrist-watch (worth more than the one in Arthur's pocket). "It's tea-time, right? You hungry?"

                "Not for tea."

                Gilbert's lips curled into a gamin grin. "Who said we're going for tea?"

* * *

The public-house Gilbert chose was smoky inside, which tickled Arthur's nerves. He wanted a cigarette, but had none, and the patio was closed for the season. They sat across from each other in a secluded booth of polished walnut and velvet upholstery, Gilbert joking that Arthur's overcoat matched the dated smoking-room decor. They read the menus in silence before placing the same order: thick cuts of red-meat, potatoes, vegetables: optional, everything covered in ale gravy, and beer.

                "I never get to come here with Fran and Toni," Gilbert said. "It's their mission to save my arteries."

                Arthur chuckled. "I like food that sticks to your bones," he said, watching the German spread an unnecessary portion of butter onto a roll. "I don't like leaving restaurants still hungry."

                Gilbert lifted his beer stein to Arthur's. " _Prost_ ," he said in agreement.

                They ate in relative silence, Arthur relaxing in the warmth of indoors and grimacing in annoyance at the loud American-punks-trying-to-sound-Irish band playing on the overhead radio. He watched Gilbert subtly, wondering if the German had just as much clouding his mind, but he didn't know Gilbert well enough to know if his stiff, resigned silence was normal or not. It certainly wasn't the way he behaved with Matthew. Unlike Antonio, who seemed to have only one face—the Spaniard didn't appear to differ between companies; even at the club he had been a smiling man—Gilbert seemed to have many, _not unlike me_ , Arthur thought. The German didn't strike Arthur as an actor, but maybe the roles he played were unconscious? It was subtle, yes, but he could see how Gilbert would be expected to behave differently depending on the company. _Be a good son_ , _a good detective_ , _a good friend_ , _a good boyfriend_ , he guessed, all the while wondering which Gilbert Beilschmidt was the true one. He hoped it was the honest indulgence he showed to Matthew, but Arthur's experience suggested it was a tumultuous blend of them all.

                _You've got a lot of weight on your shoulders_ , he thought, watching Gilbert lift a hand for two refills. The dim light caught his wrist-watch and it gleamed, polished to shine. It certainly wasn't sympathy he felt for the German, but it wasn't quite distain either.

                "Can I ask you something?" he wondered, laying his utensils aside.

                Gilbert chewed, swallowed. "Maybe," he said.

                "When you and Matthew break-up—"

                The statement took Gilbert off-guard. " _Whoa_! Who says we're breaking-up?"

                Arthur pierced him with a look of tired sarcasm; a look that said: _Seriously_? "You know, I had you pegged for a more intelligent man," he said sarcastically, recycling Gilbert's earlier jest. "Look, no one else is here right now. Let's talk plainly, okay? I'm not a romantic and neither are you, so we both know that this _relationship_ isn't going to last. It can't. You and Matthew are from two completely different worlds, you know that."

                "Okay, firstly," Gilbert said defensively, "I don't appreciate the implied air-quotes when you say _relationship_ , like it's not real, because it is."

                Arthur rolled his eyes, unconvinced, wondering if his cousin's boyfriend would be so quick to defend him if Matthew wasn't so pretty and pliable.

                _I know men like you_ , _Gilbert Beilschmidt_ , he thought bitterly. _I've trusted men like you._

                "And secondly," Gilbert continued obliviously, "I like Matt. A lot. And I want to be with him. Where we come from doesn't change that."

                "Doesn't it? Look, I'm glad you're having fun together. I'm glad that you're giving Matthew a distraction from the shit-storm that's been our life, but it won't last. It can't. Tell me honestly you don't see someone getting hurt if this continues."

                Gilbert's red eyes glared over his beer stein. He drained it and set it down with unnecessary force. "Are you talking about Matt and I, or you and Francis?" he challenged.

                Arthur felt a fist squeeze his heart, but he kept his expression measured. "I'm talking about reality," he said.

                "I'd never hurt Matt."

                "Not on purpose," Arthur agreed, "but it doesn't matter. Matthew has survived much worse than a break-up, he'll get over it. What I want to know is that you won't ever let your personal life effect your job. Promise me, Gilbert," he asked, determined green eyes meeting red, " that no matter what happens between you, you'll still protect him as a police officer. Promise you won't let anything bad happen to him. Please."

                The desperation in Arthur's plea took Gilbert by surprise; Arthur saw it in the way his wolfish gaze softened.

                "Of course I promise," he said quietly. "But you seem awfully sure that Matt and I are headed south, Arthur. Why? What have I done wrong?"

                Gilbert seemed to realize his mistake the moment the words left his mouth. He seemed to remember the glaring lie he walked around with in Matthew's presence, that he wasn't who he pretended to be; that he was a police detective; that he was deliberately keeping the boy at a distance. Arthur could have called him out on it—and a dozen other criticisms he had logged over the past two months—but the nervous twinge in Gilbert's jaw said that he already knew and regretted them.

                _I'm not here to judge you_ , he thought, bypassing the chance. _It doesn't matter what or who you pretend to be_ , _because your presence in my life will be over soon enough. You think you're such a hero_ , _Gilbert Beilschmidt_ ; _you think yourself so noble_ , _so different from the rest of them_ , _but once you know the truth it'll be you who ends it. You'll walk away from him just like everyone else_ , _because at the end of the day he's not worth what you might lose. You'll choose yourself over him_ , _and maybe that's for the best._

                "Why?" he repeated Gilbert's question. He sighed, finished his beer, and stood. "Because I know things that you don't.

                "Thanks for dinner," he said, and walked out.

* * *

**GILBERT**

 For the rest of the afternoon, Gilbert wrestled with himself.

                _What am I going to do_?

                No part of him wanted to break-up with Matthew, but the more he thought about it the more he realized how impractical a couple they were. And he wasn't the only one who had noticed. Francis and Antonio would always be a couple of romantics at heart, too impractical themselves to admit that fairytale romances didn't belong in real life; too unafraid of failure and rejection not to try. (He had seen them both pull off some _very_ corny dating tactics; because of their confidence or good-looks, he didn't know.) But Arthur was different. Arthur lived in a world devoid of happily-ever-afters; a world where sense was worth more than sentiment. And Gilbert honestly didn't know which version of life he preferred. His friends' support for his relationship was heartwarming, but Arthur's words screamed like a siren.

                _Is he right_? he worried. _Are Matt and I headed for disaster_?

                He cared a great deal for Matthew, but did he love him? Was he _in_ love with him? Could he honestly imagine a future with him? Would that even be allowed? More than anything he didn't want to hurt Matthew, but whether that meant staying together or breaking-up, he didn't know.

                He shook his head.

                _No. Stop it. Stop confusing yourself_. _I don't care what anyone thinks of us. I can handle it—I_ will _handle it_ , he decided, thinking that he and Matthew could withstand the attacks against them as long as they were together. He told himself that they— _he_ —could overcome the obstacles before them. The goals he had set for himself didn't involve Matthew. Matthew Kirkland was the one thing in Gilbert's life that was blessedly separate from everything else and he was determined to keep him that way, untainted by the ugliness of it all. _I can do this_ , he thought, accepting the added pressure. _If I can prove myself the very best_ , _then Matt's past won't matter. They'll still talk about us_ —no way to stop that; their age difference was fuel enough for gossips— _but if I can shield him from the worst of it_ _then_ _we'll be okay. I don't care what Arthur and the Chief say. I can fucking do this. I can keep Matthew safe. If I get that promotion_ —

                _I_ will _get that promotion_!

                _But how_? he puzzled, agonizing over the labyrinth he had placed himself in. How was he suppose to get that promotion if he didn't close the Club 69 case? How was he supposed to protect Matthew if he didn't arrest Mikkel?

                "ARGH!" he growled, banging his forehead against his desk.

                It was then that his cell-phone gave a loud, shrill ring, playing the alarm he had set. It was three o'clock.

                "Are you done already?" Antonio asked, surprised—and impressed—to see Gilbert packing-up so early.

                "Yeah," Gilbert replied, letting the tension flood out of him with that single, definitive word. He would solve all of his unsolvable problems later. Right now, there was somewhere he wanted to be.

                He sped through the city as fast as the traffic lights would permit, the radio crying, and the Mercedes purring like a satisfied jungle cat. By the time he returned home, it was only half-past three. The dogs barked in greeting when he entered, basked in his attention for a minute, and then led Gilbert into the lounge, where their new friend Matthew was ensconced.

                Matthew was sitting on one of the leather sofas, a cable-knit blanket tossed over his legs, dressed in Gilbert's clothes and enjoying a mug of something hot. Loose curls dangled down from the pile on his head, and his glasses sat perched on the edge of his nose as he watched a nature programme on television. One of the dogs padded forward to rest at the boy's feet in a pool of yellow sunlight, and, just like that, all of the doubt and fear went out of Gilbert and he smiled. The scene was so peaceful that for a moment he just stood in the doorway, imagining a future where he got to come home to Matthew every day. It was a pretty picture that leapt willingly into his head, replacing everything else that worried him, because it was something he knew he wanted; something that made him surprisingly happy. Seeing Matthew relaxed and content—not tired; not stressed; not nervous; not scared—was something that Gilbert liked. He liked it, because Matthew looked like he belonged in Gilbert's home.

                _You're wrong about us_ , he thought to everyone who had—and would—criticized them. _We're good for each other_ , _I know we are._

                "Oh, Gil, welcome home," Matthew said, spotting him. "Is it after three already?"

                Gilbert nodded, still smiling.

                Matthew narrowed his eyes. "What?"

                "Nothing, it's just..." Gilbert chuckled as he strode into the lounge "Could you look any cuter?" he teased, dropping heavily onto the sofa beside Matthew.

                Matthew rolled his eyes. "It's not like I had a lot of options today," he argued, plucking at the football t-shirt.

                "Well, you made an excellent choice"— _Deutschland ist Weltmeister_! it said. "Though, if you want to take it off," he added slyly, walking his fingers playfully over the boy's stomach, "that would be okay, too."

                "I thought about it," Matthew admitted, leaning against Gilbert. "I thought about staying in bed all day."

                "Oh, yeah?" Gilbert mused, only half-listening. "What made you change your mind?"

                His lips were teasing the boy's throat, but stopped abruptly when Matthew said:

                "Your brother.

                "I met Ludwig," he continued when Gilbert straightened.

                "Naked—?"

                Matthew nodded.

                A bark of laughter escaped Gilbert, even though he tried to quell it. "Oh, uh... sorry," he said, his lips pinched comically together.

                Matthew smacked him. "It's not funny!" he fumed, but he, too, was laughing. "I was stark-naked in your bed. The look on his face..." Matthew mimed it, and Gilbert burst out laughing.

                "Awe, I'm sorry I missed that," he teased, settling down. He leant back against the sofa cushions and pulled Matthew with him. The boy yielded like a ragdoll, letting himself be wrapped in a one-armed hug that Gilbert never wanted to release. It felt so good, so right. _I want this moment to last forever_ , he thought happily. He never wanted to let Matthew Kirkland go.

                "Did you have a good day at the big Beilschmidt company?" Matthew asked, interrupting Gilbert's peace-of-mind.

                "Uh, yeah." He swallowed the guilt. "Work was fine. Nothing interesting to report," he lied.

                "I hope that Lud was good to you today—?" he asked quickly, changing the subject.

                Matthew nodded. "He treated me to dinner."

                "Let me guess, Italian? _Pft_ ," Gilbert exhaled a puff, the nonverbal equivalent of: _typical_. "He loves Italian."

                "It was really good," Matthew praised Ludwig's choice. "We ate in the back-garden, then he gave me a tour." He waved his arm overhead, indicating the forested acreage of the Beilschmidt property. "You have a really beautiful home, Gil."

                "Thanks, _schatzi_. I'm glad you like it, because, uh..." Gilbert shifted, shoving the lies and deceit out-of-mind. He didn't want to juggle, not while he was with Matthew. He angled his head and met the boy's beautiful violet gaze. "I was hoping you would stay here for Christmas. You've got two weeks of holidays, right? I want you to spend them here with me. If you want to, I mean. My family is kind of scattered this year; most of them will be in Europe, but Lud has to stay here for work reasons, and I'm staying to keep him company, and so I thought that _you_ might want to keep _me_ company?" He grinned hopefully. "I invited Fran and Toni as well, and Toni's bringing Lovino, but that's just for Christmas Eve. You could stay for the whole holiday, if you want to—"

                "Yes," Matthew said, pressing a finger to Gilbert's lips, "I want to.

                "But... can Art come, too? Not for the whole holiday, but for Christmas Eve? I don't want him to be alone."

                Gilbert relaxed, having tensed at Matthew's timid "but". If enduring the Englishman's stark negativity would make Matthew happy, then Gilbert would consider it a small price to pay.

                "Yeah, of course he can," he said. "As long as he's okay with Fran being here, too."

                "I'm sure he'll be fine," Matthew dismissed, though his eyes lowered nervously for a second. Then he smiled. "Thanks, Gil. This is going to be fun. I can't wait!"

                Gilbert kissed Matthew's curly head. All of the people he loved most would be under his roof for Christmas. Happy, safe, spoiled. He smiled, too, and said:

                "Neither can I."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

That night—or, early the following morning—Lovino and Matthew returned from their shift at the club like a flock of enthusiastic birds. The volume of their voices and giddy giggles was rather unwelcome at half-two in the morning, and a neighbour's angry fist pounding on the paper-thin wall reprimanded them before Arthur could. They quieted down, but Arthur was already awake when Matthew slipped into the bedroom.

                "Why the racket?" he grumbled, lying like dead-weight on his stomach.

                It was dark, but Matthew's smile was iridescent in the streetlight's shine. "We've all been invited to Gilbert's for Christmas," he announced, unbuttoning his uniform and trading it for his hoodie. "We're going to stay at his house for the whole weekend."

                "Are you?" asked Arthur, tired.

                " _We_ are," Matthew repeated, emphasizing the plurality. He crawled onto the bed and burrowed beneath the duvet, disturbing Arthur's nest of pillows. "Please come, Art," he said.

                "I'd rather not, pet."

                He heard Matthew sigh, but steeled himself against it. The last thing he wanted to do was spend the holiday with two happy couples and his ex-lover, forced to pretend that everything was joyful when it was not.

                "Is it because Francis will be there?" Matthew asked. His voice was gentle in sympathy, which Arthur hated.

                "No," he lied. Matthew heard it, but didn't argue.

                It was silent for a long time, so long that Arthur thought Matthew had ceded defeat and fallen asleep when the boy suddenly spoke. This time, it was soft and sad:

                " _Please_ , Art?" he whispered. "You're the only family I have, I won't leave you. If you don't go, I won't either."

                Arthur swallowed the lump in his throat. "That sounds a lot like blackmail," he said, but there was no bite to the accusation.

                "It's the truth," Matthew corrected. "I won't leave you here alone, Art, but I really do want to go. I want to be with my boyfriend and friends. I want to feel _normal_ for once, is that really so bad?

                "I don't ask you for much," he added when Arthur stayed silent.

                From anyone else it would have sounded like spoiled whining, but from Matthew it was earnest. It was—like he had said—simply the truth. For seven years they had survived alone together, and in that time Matthew had never once complained, never rebelled, never disobeyed, and never asked for more than what Arthur gave. It was a lot to ask of an orphaned child, a child who, in truth, should have been given to someone who could have taken better care of him. Instead he had Arthur, and Arthur had him, and for seven years that was enough. But looking at Matthew, now, seeing him laugh with Lovino, blush at Antonio's jokes, smile at Francis' kindness, and look honestly, unapologetically happy in Gilbert's arms, Arthur knew that it— _he_ —wasn't enough anymore.

                _You're lonely_ , _aren't you_ , _Matthew_? _You've been lonely for a long time_.

                " _Please_ do this for me, Art."

                Arthur pressed his lips together, not trusting himself to reply. The boy's plea hurt his heart, but the thought of seeing Francis again hurt his heart, too.

                It wasn't Matthew's fault that he didn't know how painful it was for Arthur to think of Francis, let alone see him, speak to him; to face everything he could have had but didn't. ( _It's my fault_ , _I know that. I'm the one who ended it._ ) How could Matthew know when Arthur had never told him? How could Matthew know anything when Arthur had shielded him for his entire life? _He's not a child anymore_ , he knew, and regretted it. Children were so resilient, but Matthew's resilience was starting to break.

                Matthew didn't ask again, though; he let the silence stretch. He would not beg his cousin. He had asked his question and now quietly waited for the Englishman's decision, as always.

                _I get the final say. My word is law. I get to decide what we do_ , _how we live._ It's how it had always been.

                _Not this time_ , he decided, feeling the ache in his heart. _Matthew deserves more than this_ , _even if it's just for a weekend._

                "Okay," he said finally, sealing his fate with one simple word.

                But Matthew didn't reply with words. He wrapped his arms around Arthur's torso from behind and hugged him, holding Arthur like Arthur had always held him.

                _I promised that we would always be together_ , _Matthew. So if this is what you really want_ , _then this is what we'll do. It's your turn to choose. My decisions have done nothing but dig us a hole_ ; _I wonder if yours can get us out_?

                _I'm tired of being one of the villains_ , he thought. _Just once_ , _I want to be the hero_ , _too._


	13. Twelve

**LOVINO**

Lovino cocked his hip one way, then the other, taking note of how the tapered black trousers hugged his legs and at which angles his backside looked best. He turned in a slow circle, carefully scrutinizing his reflections in three dressing-room mirrors, while ignoring his workmate's impatient monologue from the other side of the curtain. " _Ferrari_!" moaned Mustang in annoyance. "You've been in there forever! Just choose a pair already!" Cadillac's petal-soft voice soothed Mustang's inattentive temper—"it's because Mustang's a ginger," Lovino had theorized, once—and told Lovino there was no rush. Cadillac had infinite patience for assholes, which made him the most requested dancer at Club 69. Lovino really liked his two workmates, especially outside of work, where they could all be themselves, but he was glad when Cadillac bribed Mustang with the promise of hot pretzels and they left the shop, promising to meet him later. Lovino gave an absent affirmative and went back to critiquing his figure. The gala was a black-tie event and he was determined to look the part, if not for himself then for Antonio.

                _I'll make you look good_ , he had teased the Spaniard, and he very much intended to do so.

                After much deliberation, he took the trousers to the store clerk and exchanged a month's worth of lap-dance tips to buy them.

                He left the store, feeling good about himself—it had been a long time since he had had a reason to shop in the uptown department store—but stopped when he saw a familiar pale face reflected in the window-glass of a jewellers.

                "Proposing already?" he said, loud enough to make Gilbert flinch.

                " _Scheisse_! Don't do that, Lovino!" he growled, jumpy. "What are you doing here?"

                Lovino lifted an arched eyebrow and crossed his arms, a plastic bag swinging down. "Buying clothes for the gala. What are _you_ doing here?" he countered suspiciously. If the German's outdated, monochromatic wardrobe was evidence, he was not a shopper; nor someone who frequented the commercial district, if his perplexed expression was a telling sign. He looked utterly lost, which made the Italian chuckle. "Christmas shopping?" he guessed.

                Gilbert looked guilty, which only increased Lovino's amusement.

                "Matt and I agreed not to exchange gifts," Gilbert hesitantly explained, "but Fran and Toni said I have to get him something anyway. I mean, I _want_ to get him something... I just don't know what."

                "Okay," Lovino nodded helpfully, "but those"—he pointed to the sparkling display— "are engagement rings."

                " _Fuck_ ," Gilbert hissed, stepping quickly away. The colour in his cheeks was high, rivaling his eyes. "Are they actually? Well, how am I supposed to know that? They should put a sign out or something! They all look the same!"

                Lovino snorted. "How stupid are you? Have you never bought a gift for your boyfriend before? _Seriously_?" he gaped, reading Gilbert's silence as a confession. " _Wow_ , okay. Want a tip? You and Matt have been together for... two, two-and-a-half months, right?"

                "Well, technically—"

                "I'm counting all of that wasted flirting you two did before actually becoming official," Lovino interrupted. "I think we can all agree that that was just dating without sex. So, two months—?"

                Gilbert clenched his jaw, then nodded.

                Lovino smiled and mockingly took Gilbert's hand. "I know you like him a lot," he cooed, patting gently, "but maybe don't buy him a six-carat diamond engagement ring after only two months."

                Gilbert yanked his hand back, annoyed. "Oh, fuck off, Lovino," he grumbled.

                 Lovino laughed.

                "But all joking aside," he added, glancing to the jewellers display and back, "don't get him jewellery."

                "Why not?"

                "Because if you do," Lovino admitted, sobering, "you might as well put a target on his forehead. Think about where we live and work, Gil. It's not a safe neighbourhood. Our flat's only a twenty-minute walk from the club, but do you know why we take the bus instead? Because we're Mikkel Densen's boys, and everyone on the street knows that. They expect us to have tips and gifts from patrons, and if they think they can take them from us, they will. Matt knows that, and he would never risk losing something you gave him, especially not something so expensive."

                "So, he'd never wear it?" Gilbert translated.

                Lovino shook his head. "Choose something else," he advised, then turned away in farewell.

                He was nearing a pedestrian intersection when Gilbert's voice erupted:

                "Wait!" he called, startling many bystanders as he jogged down the glassy corridor to reunite with the Italian. "You like shopping, right? Will you help me?" he blurted.

                "Help you buy your boyfriend a gift?"

                "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing," Gilbert sighed. "I don't know if I should get him something practical, or expensive, or sentimental... I don't know what the rules are for gift-exchange, okay? I don't know what a boyfriend is supposed to give. I just want to get Matt something I know he'll like." He shrugged, throwing himself upon Lovino's mercy. "Please help—?"

                Lovino regarded Gilbert for a minute, seeing Gilbert's nerves in his flushed cheeks and fidgeting hands. _He's really never done this before_ , he thought, amazed. But instead of finding it cheap or selfish or inconsiderate—Gilbert never having bought a gift for someone else before—he found it weirdly sweet, because he was trying. The frustration on his face and blatant discomfort proved just how hard he was trying, because the recipient was someone special to him; someone whom he wanted to make happy; someone he thought was worth the time and effort and headache of holiday shopping. It made Lovino feel unexpectedly giddy, happy for his roommate.

                "Okay," he agreed, hiding a smile. "But only because Matt deserves something nice, and I don't trust you to choose it yourself."

                Gilbert nodded in relief.

                "What's your limit, price-wise?"

                Again, the German shrugged. "I don't care," he said, offhanded. "There's no limit. Just choose whatever Matt will like."

                Lovino's lips curled into a fiendish smirk. "Okay," he hummed, taking Gilbert's arm, "this is going to be fun.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

_À bientôt_ ," Francis smiled at his colleague, a strapping blonde Sergeant from their sister-precinct, whose invitation to the gala he had just accepted.

                It felt a little shallow, like he was cheating somehow, but he knew it was only residual affection and loyalty to a failed relationship—a relationship he needed to get over—so he swallowed the uneasy feeling and forced himself to wave at the Sergeant in farewell. He needed a date for the gala and shouldn't disregard the person kind enough to ask him, even if it was last-minute. It was hard for some people to find the courage to do so, he knew. He wouldn't insult the Sergeant by wishing he could attend with someone else, true or not. As happy as he was for Antonio and Lovino's relationship, a part of him was disappointed— _selfish_ , _so selfish of me_ —that he and the Spaniard wouldn't be attending the gala together. Nor could he go with Gilbert, his _backup date_ they had always joked.

                _Oh_ , _well_ , he thought, releasing his frustration in a meditative sigh. _I'm happy they both have someone. They deserve to be happy_.

                He was walking back to the police department—the Sergeant had invited him for lunch—when a car slowed to a crawl beside him.

                "Want a ride?" said Gilbert from inside.

                Francis smiled and slipped in, glad to escape the cold. Glad, also, that he was with _his_ Sergeant when the car ended up stuck in traffic, because he couldn't afford to be late again without an excuse. (Really, it wasn't _his_ fault that all of the good cafés were so far away.)

                "Sergeant Anderson from the four-seven asked me to the gala. Do you know him?" he said while they waited.

                Gilbert held a long, low note as he searched his mental-index. "Not well," he replied. "I think I've seen him at training days. He seems normal. Not as handsome as me, of course," he joked, "but I guess you've made your choice, Fran. Just know that I would've treated you real well." He elbowed Francis teasingly, but stopped when Francis didn't respond.

                "You're not taking Matthew?" Francis asked, confused. "Why not?"

                Gilbert righted his posture, which betrayed his casual tone. "I prefer to keep my work-life and personal-life separate," he said.

                Francis faced him, suddenly weary of his friend. "Gil, he's your boyfriend. Your boyfriend who started out as _work_ , if you recall. Toni's bringing Lovino, why don't you want to invite Matthew?"

                "It's not that I don't _want_ to, it's just... The gala's boring as fuck," he said, seized by inspiration. " _I_ don't even want to go. I'm not putting Matt through it." He chuckled, but it was forced.

                "Oh my God," Francis realized in disbelief, "you're ashamed of him, aren't you?"

                "No," said Gilbert firmly—too firmly, Francis thought, like he had been expecting the accusation; like he had already been thinking about it.

                "Oh, Gil..." he sighed, unable to hide his disappointment.

                "Fran," Gilbert warned, "don't look at me like that. You _know_ I think the world of Matt, it's just that... it's just not a good time, okay? I'm up for a promotion—"

                "You can't be serious," Francis interrupted. "You think he's going to hurt your chances of getting promoted? _That's_ why you won't take him?"

                "It's not that simple," Gilbert argued, his knuckles bone-white on the steering-wheel. "This is something I've worked really fucking hard for, it's something I need. It's an important career step I need to take if I want to be Chief Police Commissioner someday. I can't risk it, you must know that. The gala will be crawling with big-wigs, the press, my family's clients and business partners... _everyone_ knows who I am, Fran. I can't bring a nineteen-year-old stripper as my date. I just _can't_."

                "Matthew's not a stripper," Francis glared at him. "He's your boyfriend—"

                "That's worse!" Gilbert blurted. He seemed to realize his mistake, because his lips suddenly tightened and he instinctively bowed his head.

                "You know what I mean," he muttered. "I can't have anyone know about him. Not right now."

                "No?" Francis challenged. If he was anyone else, he would've let it go. If Gilbert was anyone but his friend he would've held his tongue and swallowed his protests, his scolding. But Gilbert _was_ his friend, so Francis pushed: "If not now, then when?"

                "Fran, _don't_."

                The German's voice was a growl, his posture tense. It was how he looked before he yelled, or hit something, but Francis ignored the warning. He felt, for some reason, inclined to defend Matthew, recklessly obliged to champion his friend's relationship for both of their sakes. And he was afraid he knew why. It was heartache. It was Arthur. It was the raw grief of losing his happiness that made him want to preserve his friends'.

                _Just be quiet_ , said Logic, _it's none of your business._ _Gilbert is an adult_ , _he can do whatever he wants._

                But Francis had been quiet for far too long already, since the night at The Royal. He hadn't talked about it, or even cried, and that was a mistake. All of his grief and frustration seemed to bubble-up from deep inside of him now, and, unable to yell at the culprit, he yelled at Gilbert instead.

                "You're lying," he said, impassioned. "You're lying to everyone, including yourself. You're never going to let Matthew into your life, are you?"

                "Of course I am!" Gilbert snarled.

                "Then _when_?" Francis urged. " _When_ will you trust him? When will you stop caring about everything else and let yourself be happy? After a year, or two? After you've married him? After you've adopted your second child? You can't keep him hidden forever, Gil, so _when_?

                "Never," he answered his own question. "Because you don't see any of that happening, do you? You don't see Matthew in your future."

                Gilbert was silent. Francis shook his head.

                "I never thought _you_ , of all people, would bow to social pressure. I thought you were braver than that, Gil."

                Gilbert's reply was delayed, but firm: "I guess I'm not."

                Francis felt tears welling-up in his eyes—for Matthew and Gilbert, or for himself, he didn't know. He turned toward the window so that his friend wouldn't see. He crossed his arms tightly, burying the sorrow in a sulky posture that was _his_ lie, because he wasn't okay. He hadn't been okay for a long time.

                "You're going to break that boy's heart," he said quietly, " _and_ your own."            

                The rest of the drive was silent, Gilbert simmering, and Francis fighting back tears. The moment the car was parked in the underground, the engine rumbling to sleep, Francis' hand was on the door handle. He needed privacy to put himself back together, a quick detour to the washroom to splash his face, but Gilbert's voice stopped him:

                "You really love him, don't you?"

                There was no doubt whom he was referring to. The question seemed to hang in the dark silence that engulfed them now, alone in the lot. And Francis' walls crumbled. He squeezed his eyes shut, but tears leaked out, wetting his long lashes and rolling down his cheeks, evidence of the truth. His hand slipped from the door handle, and he nodded.

                Gilbert exhaled. "Toni was right. He knew you were hurting, knew you weren't okay. I'm sorry I didn't know, Fran. I'm sorry I—didn't care," he admitted. "But I'm here now. I'm your friend and I'm here."

                Francis felt fragile beneath Gilbert's hand, which squeezed his shoulder a little too hard. He opened his eyes and looked at his friend's pale silhouette, and he nodded again in acceptance.

                "Toni can't see me like this," he said, his voice a nasal warble. "He needs me. I can't break in front of him."

                Gilbert nodded in understanding. "You can break in front of me." He squeezed harder. "I won't tell anyone."

                Francis smiled, even as tears flooded his eyes. The permission seemed to truly break something inside of him and his body sagged, bowed by the emotional implosion. Shakily, he pulled his handkerchief from his inside pocket to wipe his face, and heard more than saw Gilbert's smile.

                "There's my magician," he teased.

                A small hiccup of laughter escaped Francis, then morphed into a sniffle.

                "It's going to be okay, Fran," Gilbert promised, sliding his hand across his friend's shoulders. Francis yielded to the pull and leant into the German's one-armed hug.

                "I'm worried about him," Francis confessed. Him—Arthur. Gilbert knew that. "I don't know what to do."

                "We do our job," Gilbert said. "We keep them safe for as long as we can. You don't have to be his lover to do that."

                Francis wiped his face, then rested his cheek on Gilbert's leather-clad shoulder. "I'm not sorry about what I said, about you and Matthew," he said, implying that affection didn't nullify their argument. "I meant every word, Gil. You're your own worst enemy. I just want you to be happy."

                Gilbert sighed; Francis felt it. "I know," he said.

                By the time they returned to the office, it was two o'clock, over two hours since Francis had left for lunch, but nobody glared or scolded him for it, because he walked in with Gilbert. Those who didn't respect the Sergeant's higher position blamed the duo's tardiness on an afternoon tryst. Francis knew this by their raised eyebrows and sideways smirks, but he also couldn't have cared less. If his gossiping colleagues wanted to believe he was fucking Gilbert and Antonio and God only knew who else, let them. It had never hurt him before.

                "Franny!" Antonio gestured, urging Francis closer. His green eyes were alight with mischief as he discretely placed a serviette-wrapped treat in the Frenchman's hand. "Donuts in the break-room. I swiped you a custard-cream. Sorry, Gil, none for you," he added, wagging his finger. "Your cholesterol's already too high. I got you a lovely handful of carrot sticks instead."

                He grinned impishly and ducked Gilbert's menacing growl, the German telling him in detail exactly what he could do with the carrots.

                Francis licked custard off his fingers, and laughed.

* * *

**ANTONIO**

**FRIDAY**

Antonio didn't want to let Lovino go into Club 69, but he bargained that it was the Italian's last shift before the entire establishment closed for the holidays. (If there was nothing else about Mikkel Densen that deserved gratitude, the two uninterrupted weeks Antonio and Lovino would have together was.) And yet, he held onto his boyfriend, play-fighting the Italian's lousy struggles, until Lovino finally gasped:

                "Seriously, Tonio— _I'm going to be late_!"

                "Fine," Antonio sighed in regret, only half-joking.

                "Don't pout," Lovino scolded, cupping the Spaniard's face in his delicate, ungloved hands—which were quite cold. "I'll see you tomorrow night. What time are you coming by?"

                "Six at the latest," Antonio emphasized. "We _can't_ be late for the gala. If we arrive after the Commissioner's address, my boss will lynch me."

                "I'll be ready," Lovino promised. He pressed his lips chastely to Antonio's. "See you then."

                Antonio watched with a deflated heart as Lovino slipped through the staff entrance and disappeared inside. He lingered a minute, then two. It was the same thing every time he dropped Lovino off at the club, an internal battle he turned into a playful game for his boyfriend's benefit. He didn't want to frighten Lovino with his possessiveness; he would much rather make him laugh. Besides, it was only a matter of time before the club closed and Lovino was out-of-work; only a matter of time before Densen was arrested or forced to flee, he hoped. He placated himself with this thought and, eventually, swallowed his last pill to tranquilize the inner demon that goaded him. _We'll go to the gala tomorrow night_ , _and then we'll be together for two full weeks_ , he thought, failing to factor in his own work schedule. He took a deep breath and made his feet walk away from the club. But he didn't get far.

                He was still within sight of the staff entrance when it flew open and Matthew staggered out. A man followed him, Club 69's manager.

                "I've had it with you, you fucking brat!" he shouted. "You're fired!"

                " _Please_ —"

                A sharp, backhanded smack silenced the boy's begging. His head whipped sideways and his glasses fell to the ground. He knelt to retrieve them, but the Manager's boot came down hard on both the glasses and his hand. Antonio heard the crack, even beneath Matthew's cry, and hoped it was glass and not bone.

                For a moment he saw in blood-red and everything was silenced by the demon that whispered: _Your friend is in danger. He needs you—needs you to stop the threat_. Antonio's eyes snared the spitting, red-faced Manager, who's heaving bulk was more squishy flesh than muscle. He was shorter than the boy, but twice as wide and experienced in violence. Matthew, Antonio guessed, had never hit anyone in his entire life. _He's just like Francis_ , goaded the demon. _He needs you_. A sound escaped Antonio—half-growl, half-whine—and he pressed a shaking hand to his chest, trying to physically hold himself back. His head was foggy, his anger forcibly alleviated by the potent tranquilizer working its way through his system. He tried to fight it, but it only made him shake harder, like an addict. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in deeply, waiting for the dizzying effects to stop. It was the sound of a door slamming that finally drew him back.

                His eyes opened and focused on Matthew, who was sitting motionless in the alley, facing away from Antonio. The Manager had gone back inside.

                "Hey," he said softly, touching the boy's shoulder.

                Matthew flinched so dramatically that Antonio stepped back, his hands raised in innocence. "It's okay, Matt. It's just me, just Antonio," he said, realizing too late that he should have started with that. "Are you okay?"

                _Another stupid question_ , he thought belatedly. The boy looked like a broken bird, crippled and sullied by the alley. His eyes, usually so large and bright, two jewels of colour in a snow-white face, were narrowed—not in suspicion but in concentration, like he couldn't quite believe Antonio's voice.

                "Can you not see me?" he asked. He wasn't standing that far away, just a few feet.

                "Not really," Matthew said quietly, squinting. "I can see that you're a man, but you're blurry. I'm s-s-sorry." His voice broke on the apology.

                Antonio knelt and placed a careful hand between Matthew's pronounced shoulder-blades. The boy was not wearing a coat. "Should I tell you something that only I would know?" he gently teased, easing Matthew slowly to his feet. "Like how you and Gil did it for the first time on the hood of his car? Or, that you have a leaf-shaped birthmark on the inside of your thigh? Or—"

                " _Hey_ ," came Matthew's soft protest. It was timid, but a meek laugh escaped him, which had been Antonio's goal. "Did Gil tell you that?"

                Antonio imbued his voice with a smile. "I don't think he realizes how much he talks about you."

                He watched Matthew's expression transform in the sunset, a small smile curling his lips despite the budding bruise on his cheek. _Gil really is your happy-place_ , _isn't he_? he thought, pitying the boy.

                But the smiles and teasing was a short interlude. Matthew's hand was bleeding, cut on the broken glasses he was still holding, and he was shivering.

                "Here—" Antonio began to unzip his coat, but Matthew refused it.

                "No, it's okay. I'm not cold."

                Antonio didn't believe him— _not cold_ , _in this weather_?—but he didn't insist. He wouldn't treat Matthew like a child, even if he _did_ look like one. Nineteen or not, the resolve and acceptance on his face, in his stooped posture, and the complete lack of fight in him made Antonio think that Matthew had not been a child for a long, long time.

                _This is just another day for you_ , _isn't it_? he thought, feeling worse. Lovino was filled with fire, the benefits of privilege still fueling his rebellion, but Arthur and Matthew had nothing left in them but the will to survive. He could practically hear it in the boy's movements: _Head down_ , _don't make eye-contact_. _Keep quiet_ , _don't draw attention to yourself. Don't fight back_ , _just get through it. Stay passive and it'll all go away_.

                _You really are just a broken little bird_ , _aren't you_? he thought, seeing for the first time a smidgen of what Gilbert saw when he looked at the boy: seeing someone he wanted to protect.

                "Can you help me get to the bus stop?" Matthew asked.

                Antonio ignored the question. "Do you have a spare?" he asked instead, nodding to the broken glasses. The frames looked intact, but the lenses were badly cracked.

                Matthew shook his head.

                Antonio took his hand, which had been blindly searching for a crutch, and guided him slowly to the street. Matthew's hand had a lot more strength in it than Lovino's did, if only he would use it, but he didn't—wouldn't ever—because he didn't trust himself. This was made clear when he tripped on the raised sidewalk and, rather than try to catch his balance, he just braced himself for the impact.

                "Don't worry, I've got you," Antonio said confidently. He wrapped an arm securely around Matthew's waist. "Is this okay? Just lean against me, Matt."

                He felt Matthew take a handful of his coat, tighter than he expected. And he heard a soft: " _Thank-you_."

                Antonio flagged down a taxi-cab and told the driver to take them uptown. "There's a twenty-four hour clinic not far from my place. I doubt they have designer frames, but I'm sure they can replace those lenses if we beg. They're not a special prescription, are they?"

                "No," Matthew said, curled close to Antonio in the backseat, maintaining a death-grip on the Spaniard's coat. "I'm just nearsighted. But I—I don't have any money," he worried.

                Antonio smiled. "I've got a little."

                "Antonio, no, I can't ask you to—"

                "Why did he fire you?" he interrupted, ignoring Matthew's protest. There was a sly grin in his voice when he asked: "What did you do?"

                _Tell me you hit someone. Please tell me you hit someone_ , _or broke something_ , _or threw a drink in someone's face_.

                "I wore my glasses to work."

                Antonio blinked. He had misheard; he must have. "You got fired... because you wore your glasses to work—?"

                Matthew sighed. "I'm only allowed to wear contacts at work, but I don't have any contacts right now, so I've been wearing my glasses—because I can't see without them," he added, as if that wasn't obvious—"and the Manager finally caught me. I've been lucky to avoid him until now, but..." He shrugged meekly. "He's wanted to fire me for a long time. I don't know what I ever did to him, but he hates me—"

                " _Joder_!" Antonio spat suddenly. " _Joder coño hostia puta_!" he growled under his breath.

                Matthew shrank back a bit. "Um, sorry—?"

                "Nothing—never-mind," Antonio dismissed. "That guy's a fucking bastard," he said in English. "He fired you for wearing glasses at work? That's fucking illegal! You could sue him for..."

                But Matthew was nervously shaking his head. "N-no, I couldn't. I-I-I—It's probably for the best. Don't worry about it. In fact, if you just take me home, then Art will take care of everything. I-I-I—I'll just, um..."

                _Oops_ , Antonio thought, watching tears fill Matthew's eyes. _I scared him_. _I made him feel worse about it all._

                " _S-s-s-sorry_ ," Matthew whispered, covering his face with both hands. He was shaking.

                In apology, Antonio tugged off his coat and draped it over Matthew's shoulders. He kept a hand on the boy's back, heavy and solid, and he said the first thing that leapt into his head:

                "You're safe."

                It's what Francis always said to him when he was crashing, because _don't worry_ and _everything will be okay_ were shallow lies to someone in distress. Antonio didn't want to lie to Matthew and make promises he couldn't keep, so he told the truth instead:

                "I'm here, Matt," he said soothingly. "I'm going to help you. You're safe."

                A shudder wracked Matthew's chest before he slowly lowered his hands. " _I'm s-s-sorry_ ," he stuttered. " _It's just that I... I..._ " He pursed his lips, afraid to continue.

                "Go on, say it," Antonio urged. "It's just you and I here. Get mad, Matt. I won't tell anyone."

                Hesitantly, Matthew met Antonio's gaze. "It's just that I... I... I-I-I—I'm a nice person!" he said, curling his hands into fists in his lap. "And I-I-I—I—"

                Antonio nodded in encouragement.

                "I don't deserve to be treated like this!"

                "No, you don't. No one does."

                " _No one does_!" Matthew repeated, louder. " _And I'm fucking sick of it_! _I just want to fucking hit something_!" he yelled, tears rolling down his cheeks. " _I want to fucking scream_!"

                "There you go," Antonio smiled, rubbing the boy's back in approval. "That feels better, doesn't it? Well done! Though, your cursing needs some practice. _Fuck_ 's classic, of course, but the trick to epic cursing is stringing together as many profanities as possible, whether they make sense or not. I know English isn't as inspired as Spanish when it comes to cursing," he joked, "but I could teach you a few words sure to get anyone's attention."

                A bubble of breathy laughter escaped Matthew. He wiped his cheeks with his sleeves, then smiled. "Funny," he said, "Gil offered the same thing."

                Antonio ruffled his curls. "Take the hint, kid."

                "Don't tell him I cried, okay?"

                Antonio crossed his heart. "Promise."

                Matthew nodded. Then, softer, he said: "Thank-you for being here. I'm really glad you are."

                Antonio smiled. "What are friends for?"

* * *

**LOVINO**

**SATURDAY**

Fuck, fuck, fuck," Lovino chanted as he hopped across the flat on one foot, the other stuck in his trousers. He glanced at the clock—ten minutes to six—and, cursing, dove into the washroom.

                " _Ah_!" He tried to dodge Matthew, who was inside, but stumbled and crashed against the counter. A selection of cosmetics fell to the floor, along with a bottle of witch-hazel. Matthew's bruised cheek was wet with it.

                "Oh, sorry!" He knelt to retrieve it all.

                "Hey," Lovino said, wiggling into his trousers and buttoning the waist, "if you don't get changed soon, you're going to be late, and I'm not waiting for you."

                Matthew stared up at him, perplexed. "I have to change—?" He looked down at his old blue-jeans and Union Jack jumper, which fit him better than it did Arthur.

                Lovino rolled his eyes. "Ha ha, very funny," he said sarcastically. He squeezed out a small dollop of product and threaded it through his silky hair. It curled stylishly. "I sincerely hope you have something decent to wear tonight. Gil told you it's black-tie, right?"

                Matthew stood and replaced the cosmetics. "What is?"

                _Ugh_ , _seriously_? Lovino thought, frustrated. _I've got_ , _like_ , _five minutes before Toni shows up_ , _and he chooses now to make jokes_?

                "The gala!" he snapped, glancing back at the clock.

                "Lovino, I have no idea what you're talking about."

                Matthew's honesty took Lovino off-guard. He saw the boy's innocent confusion reflected in the mirror, then turned to see it face-to-face.

                "The Police Department's annual Christmas Gala is tonight—their huge, swanky fundraiser. Gil didn't invite you to it?" he asked, shocked.

                "O-oh, _that_." Matthew chuckled nervously, insincerely. "Of course he did. I just—I didn't want to go."

                _Oh_ , _fuck_.

                Lovino realized, too late, the mistake he had made. _I might as well have just slapped him in the face_. _What the fuck_ , _Gilbert_? he thought angrily. _Why aren't you taking Matt to the gala_?

                Matthew readjusted his glasses and forced a companionable smile. "I hope you have fun tonight, though," he said, then shuffled out of the washroom. A moment later, Lovino heard the click of Matthew's bedroom door closing.

                "Fuck," he cursed. But he didn't have long to ruminate, because Antonio's urgent voice spilled into the flat:

                "Lovinito, _cariño_! Are you ready? We've got to go!"

* * *

When Antonio and Lovino walked into the hotel, heads turned, other guests following the couple with their eyes. Not because they were late—they arrived minutes before the deadline—but because they looked fucking good. Lovino hid a sly smirk when he saw their reflection in a long wall-mirror, and leant up to whisper in his boyfriend's ear:

                "Tonio, you—" _look like a fucking rock-star_ , _like sex in a six-thousand-credit suit_ , he thought dreamily, but refrained. It was not the place for seduction; Antonio's efforts deserved more than that tonight. "—really handsome," he smiled, and kissed Antonio's jaw.

                Antonio's green eyes sparkled in the low dining-room light. "Thank-you, _cariño_. But no one," he repeated for the umpteenth time, "is more beautiful than you."

                They found their table and quickly sat, just as the Chief Police Commissioner reached the podium. The close-call had Gilbert shaking his head, then stifling a chuckle when Antonio winked at him. The table consisted of Gilbert, Francis, and a few others, including Francis' date, who was introduced to Lovino as Sergeant Anderson, and whose broad, clean-cut figure and immovable facial expression looked more military than police academy. He didn't speak much, and Lovino didn't try to engage him. He was also glad to be sitting across from Gilbert instead of beside him, because it was a better angle to glare from; though, after the first time the German stopped making eye-contact with him altogether. Lovino couldn't believe the audacity of him. _You would really rather be here alone than with Matt—_? He didn't know if it was better or worse that Gilbert hadn't brought a substitute date to the gala, but decided it was worth his disdain regardless.

                A four-course supper was served, wine was poured and consumed, and a string quartet played to accompany the meal. Lovino ignored the parade of well-dressed people who kept coming by to speak to Gilbert, who stood each time to greet them, letting his meal get cold. By the time dessert was served, he had deserted their table altogether, stolen by sycophantic admirers who wanted the Beilschmidt heir's attention.

                "That one," Antonio pointed discretely, "is Gil's little brother, Ludwig."

                Lovino followed Antonio's direction and was surprised to find a very handsome man standing beside Gilbert. He was half-a-head taller than Gilbert— _he's huge_!—built like a boxer, and dressed like a gentleman. The brothers did not look much alike, both tall and muscular, but so were a lot of men, but they did act alike. If their appearance didn't betray their relation, their expressions and mannerisms did, as did the way they seemed to feed off of each other in a crowd. Gilbert, Lovino noticed, stayed close to his little—physically bigger—brother, revealing a subtle unease that the Italian had never seen in him before.

                _He really doesn't want to be here_ , he thought, briefly sympathetic before remembering he was angry with the German.

                Once supper was finished, coffee and tea—and more wine—served, most guests left their tables to mingle and network, but Antonio and Francis stayed put. As flamboyantly social as they were, neither of them were interested in the present company, which—Lovino soon realized—seemed to be mutual, because few people approached their table either. Instead, they used each other as conversational shields. Francis leant over the brooding silence of Anderson to talk to Antonio, both making jokes and comments and telling stories to Lovino that he found highly amusing. Lovino, too, saw quite a few people he knew in attendance, but pretended he didn't, and hoped no one would get close enough to recognize him as well. He told the few people who politely inquired that he was a dancer, and then he didn't correct them when they assumed it was ballet.

                It was nearly ten o'clock when his luck finally deserted him.

                Francis and Anderson had left the table, and Antonio had gone to the toilet, leaving Lovino alone for the first time. Lovino had considered following Antonio, but realized that would be clingy. Instead, he fetched himself a glass of wine and distracted himself by critiquing the artwork on display for silent auction. It was all rather overpriced, and nothing caught his eye until he saw a long, horizontal black-and-white photograph that was so soft and simple it was stunningly elegant. He knew that style without reading the artist's name: _Feliciano Vargas_.

                He startled when he heard the surname repeated aloud.

                "Vargas," said an elderly matron in a silver stole. Lovino thought that she was simply reading the name plate, until she repeated: "Lovino Vargas."

                Lovino stiffened; his heart leapt into his throat. Slowly, he turned.

                " _Buonasera_ , _Signora_ _Bentivoglio_ ," he said in Italian with as much charm and confidence as he could muster.

                Dame Bentivoglio offered him her gloved hand, which sparkled blindingly with white diamonds. Lovino took it and feigned a kiss.

                "Your brother's work is very fine," she complimented courteously. "How is your mother?"

                "She's well," _I assume_ , he replied, eyes searching desperately for an escape.

                "I quite like her winter collection this year, very inspired. I expect she's in Milan preparing to show it?"

                "Yes," _probably._

                "It's lovely to see you here, Lovino, representing your family. Your father tells me you've been away at school, being kept very busy."

                Lovino's fist tightened around his wine glass. "Mm hmm," he smiled, tight-lipped.

                So, his father hadn't publicly disowned him. He was just blaming Lovino's absence on school, was he? That was interesting.

                It was then that Antonio returned, looking as bright-eyed and dashing as could be. He smiled at Lovino, but Lovino's eyes were on the old matron, whose gaze critiqued the Spaniard in one entitled sweep.

                "Hello," Antonio said, extending his hand. "Detective Antonio Fernández Carriedo. It's nice to meet you."

                Dame Bentivoglio chuckled, as if Antonio had made a joke. Lovino felt his stomach plummet at the hurt look on Antonio's face. He lowered his hand and stepped back, closer to Lovino, misunderstanding his mistake.

                " _This is your date_?" she asked Lovino in Italian. An over-indulgent smile curled her lips. " _It's sweet of you to attend with one of the detectives. How fitting for a charity function_ ," she mused.

                Lovino's temper flared, provoked; he felt the blood rush to his face. " _Antonio_ ," he said deliberately—Antonio looked helplessly from Dame Bentivoglio to Lovino—" _is my boyfriend_."

                " _Oh_ ," she paused, taken aback. Then her expression turned grave. " _Does your father approve_?"  

                Lovino put his wine glass down—hard—and took Antonio's hand.

                " _I don't give a flying fuck_ ," he said flippantly. " _My father's opinion means nothing to me_ , _and neither does yours. Pleasant evening_ , _Signora_."

                Then he pulled Antonio away, into a shallow alcove, and kissed him passionately where the old matron could see it in detail, tongues and all.

                " _Wh_ —" Antonio gasped. He cleared his throat and tried again. "What was that about?"

                "Don't worry about it, babe," Lovino replied, shooting a defiant glance over-the-shoulder at the scandalized matron. He patted Antonio's backside, and said: "Just making a point."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Alright, pet?" Arthur said in greeting.

                Matthew nodded, but his defensive posture betrayed him. He was sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, his back braced against the wall, with a novel he had already read clutched between his hands. There was a half-drunk soda bottle on the bedside-table beside him. Arthur suspected it was what constituted Matthew's supper, but he didn't comment. He hadn't eaten anything but a newsstand energy-bar since noon, himself. _Not exactly a gourmet feast_ , he thought, which is what Lovino was enjoying just then. He felt unjustifiably—incomprehensibly—disappointed that he couldn't go to the gala as well, but much worse for Matthew, who hadn't been invited.

                Wordless, Arthur took the novel from Matthew and set it aside, then said: "Let's go for a walk."

                It was after dark and quite cold, but Matthew didn't argue. He rarely did. He got up habitually, tugged on his boots, and followed Arthur outside.

                They walked in silence to the bus stop, then boarded and rode it for twenty-five jerky blocks. At a crossroads by the railroad track, Matthew requested a stop, knowing, now, exactly where they were going.

                They climbed the rusty fire-escape, then hauled themselves onto the narrow balcony of their old home. The windows were boarded, but through the cracks they could still see the peeling yellow wallpaper of their old bedroom, in the now condemned complex. Matthew climbed onto the railing and let his feet dangle down; Arthur leant forward on his elbows, not entirely sure how stable it was, and prepared to grab Matthew if the metal collapsed. An abandoned rail yard stretched out in front of them: _the train cemetery_ , they had called it as children. It looked like it always had.

                "Do you miss her?" he asked, his voice sounding loud. It was almost eight years since Aunt Madeline's death.

                "No," Matthew replied, and that was somehow sadder than if he had said _yes_. But Arthur understood.

                "I've got something for you," he said, changing the topic. He reached for the bag he had brought—the bag the boy had not bothered to question before. He did now:

                "Art," he said in accusation, "we said no gifts this year—"

                "It's not a holiday gift, it's a necessity," Arthur corrected. He untied the draw-string and from within pulled out a designer coat.

                Matthew's mouth fell open in awe. It was gorgeous. It looked like the kind of needless luxury Jaguar wore.

                "I know why you haven't been wearing a coat," Arthur admitted. "It's because the zipper on yours is broken, isn't it?"

                Matthew looked down. "I didn't think you'd notice," he admitted, mildly ashamed.

                Arthur shook his head, hurt by the assumption. "Do you really think I don't know when something is wrong, Matthew? Do you think I don't pay attention?

                "Here," he said, draping the coat over Matthew's shivering shoulders. "Put it on. It's nice, isn't it? I'm not an expert," he added, "but I'm pretty sure the lining is real mink."

                "How incredibly unethical," Matthew replied, while snuggling into it. "It's so soft."

                "And warm," Arthur promised. "It'll keep you from freezing to death."

                "Where did you get it?" Matthew asked. He could only guess at the coat's value. "You didn't steal it, did you?"

                Arthur clucked his tongue. "No, I didn't steal it," he said, feigning insult. But his bravado quickly deflated. He shifted his weight and stared at the rail yard when he said: "I went to the Benevolent Society."

                Matthew stared at him in disbelief. " _You_ went to—a _charity_?" he dared.

                Arthur sighed deeply, and confessed: "Yes. I had to. I haven't got any money to spare. I'm sorry."

                " _Sorry_?" Without warning, Matthew pulled Arthur into a hug that nearly pitched him off the balcony railing. "I love you, Art, but sometimes you are so, so stupid," he smiled; Arthur heard it in his voice. "It's not something to be sorry for, I love it! I just can't believe that _you_ —after all these years—finally broke and went to a _charity_!" he laughed, delighted.

                "Oh, shut up," Arthur grumbled, pushing the boy away.

                "Not as bad as you thought, eh?" Matthew snuggled the coat in proof. "I can't believe they had something like _this_ , though," he added, impressed.

                "I went early yesterday morning," Arthur replied. "I got there just as it was opening, and the saleswoman was putting it out on display. I doubt I would've got it otherwise."

                "Well, I'm really glad you did. Thank-you," Matthew said gratefully. He wrapped his arm around Arthur, who yielded and leant against him. The coat's hood provided a nice pillow.

                "One more thing," he said.

                He pulled two small, starry Christmas crackers out of his pocket and handed one to Matthew. The boy's eyes glowed with excited nostalgia.

                "I doubt the Germans will celebrate Christmas properly," Arthur said, substituting _properly_ for _English-ly_ in his head, "so I thought we ought to do so, now. Ready?" he asked, holding a cracker between his fingers, left bare by the holes in his gloves. Together, they pulled.

                BANG!

                "Happy Christmas, Matthew."

                "Happy Christmas, Art."

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Francis smiled, and shook hands, and emptied another glass of wine. He held Anderson's muscular arm as they did a circuit of the rectangular ballroom, greeting the Sergeant's coworkers and casual acquaintances, and quite certain that the Sergeant was doing it on purpose to show-off his date—perhaps he and his partners had a bet—but Francis didn't mind. He was confident of his good-looks tonight, and knew by the smiles and smirks he received that many others agreed. So, he cajoled and caroused and played along, until, late in the evening, Anderson's hand found his backside and squeezed, and Francis flippantly thought: _Why not_?

                They left the ballroom and entered a corridor, where Francis smiled at Antonio, who was returning from the toilet. Antonio lifted an eyebrow, but Francis gave a communicative nod and kept walking. At the end of the corridor, he and the Sergeant slipped discretely into an empty stairwell with unpolished, uncarpeted steps: a server's stairwell, where hotel guests would not interrupt them. Francis felt the cold concrete through his shirt and heard the combined echo of their movements. Anderson pressed his wide chest to Francis', pinning him to the wall, and unbuckled his belt as they kissed. It tasted of tobacco and white wine. Francis placed his hands on the sergeant's shoulders to steady his balance, and also to feel less trapped in the small space.

                _Don't think too much about it_ , he told himself, focusing, instead, on the act itself. His body moved habitually.

                He ran his fingers over Anderson's short hair, but rather than slide through softly, it crunched with too much product. He cupped the back of the Sergeant's neck, but rather than coil playfully around an effeminate column, it was thick and sweaty and prickly with shaved hairs. He pressed his pelvis to the Sergeant's wider hips and felt him thrust back forcefully, not arousing but alarming. Francis was sure it would bruise. At that, he ended the wet, fleshy kiss and opened his eyes and found the man watching him, not through seductive green eyes—Francis' favourite—but through dark eyes hazy with lust and alcohol. And he tensed.

                "Um, wait..." he said, feeling uncertain.

                He could feel his date's stiff arousal straining hard at his trousers, pushed flush to Francis' groin, but Francis' body was not reciprocating.

                _What_ —?

                Anderson's groping hands were no different than the average man's, buried to the wrist in Francis' trousers, but no erection was forthcoming.

                _What the fuck_? he thought, panicked. He couldn't recall the last time he had failed to perform. It had been in high-school, at least, and he had probably been pissed.

                _I'm happy to accommodate whatever my partner wants_ , he had said to Arthur, but he realized with sudden clarity that he didn't want _this_.

                _I don't want to submit to you_ , he thought of Anderson, who loomed up over him. The imagined pump of the man's swollen cock inside of him made him feel suddenly squeamish.

                "Stop," he said firmly, laying one hand flat against Anderson's chest; the other removed the sergeant's hand from his trousers. "I'm sorry, but I—I can't do this here."

                Anderson started at him, befuddled. "Somewhere else then?" he asked.

                "No. Nowhere—never," Francis clipped, feeling uncharacteristically nervous. "I'm sorry," he repeated, "but I'm not interested in you this way."

                "Well, _fuck_ ," Anderson exhaled a frustrated curse. "You couldn't have told me sooner?" he said in accusation.

                Francis instinctively glanced down at Anderson's pelvis, where the head of his weeping erection was peeking over his unbuttoned trousers. "Sorry," he said—again—surprised to find himself embarrassed by the man's state, and wanting, more than anything, to remove himself from the uncomfortable encounter. He wanted Anderson to let go of his waist and let him past, but the bigger, stronger man didn't budge.

                "The least you can do is help me get rid of it," he said, as if seeking reciprocity. As if his arousal was Francis' fault.

                "I don't think that's a good idea," Francis argued, looking awkwardly away. "We're colleagues—"

                "So?" Anderson cut in. "It's nothing you haven't done before, right?"

                Francis didn't like the lewd insinuation in his tone, nor the entitled look in his eyes. He was afraid he knew what was coming.

                "It's alright, I'm not judging you," Anderson continued. His words feigned politeness, but his hands grabbed eagerly at Francis' biceps, holding him in place. "Everyone knows you've got a _talent_ for making a man feel good," he grinned. "What's one more? I mean, how many colleagues have you fucked already?"

                Francis glared. "None," he said seriously. Then, aghast: "Is _that_ why you asked me to be your date? Because you thought I'd have sex with you?"

                Anderson exhaled dismissively. "Oh, come on, don't be like that. It's fine, okay? I don't care how many others you've been with. And I'm not going to tell anyone, so just—" He pushed down on Francis' shoulders, trying to make him kneel.

                Francis resisted. "Let go of me!" he spat. He tried to shove Anderson away, but his lowered position, his back against the wall, was a compromised one. Besides, the landing was narrow and he didn't want to risk pushing the man down the stairs, no matter the assault. Despite his profession—or, perhaps, because of it—Francis Bonnefoi had never hit anyone in his life.

                Instead, he delved into his back-pocket and felt his cell-phone. _Please_ , _just let me go_ , he hoped. _Don't turn this into a scene_.

                But the insult to Anderson's pride fuelled him, and his hand plunged back into Francis' trousers, debilitating the Frenchman's movements. An involuntary whine escaped Francis, and, angry—and frightened, now—he activated a number by speed-dial. Then he loudly repeated:

                " _Let go_! _I don't want to have sex in the west stairwell_!"

                " _Quiet_!" Anderson snapped, covering Francis' mouth. He glanced nervously at the door. "Do you _want_ to get caught? Just relax," he ordered, pinning Francis' wrist to the concrete. Then he shimmied forward until his groin was straddling Francis' upper-thigh, rubbing himself against it.

                At another time, another place—another partner—Francis might have enjoyed the dominating play, but just then he was repulsed by it, because it wasn't a game, it was real. Anderson's grasp, the pressure he applied, was not an act; there was no safe-word, or consent, or consideration, just selfish need; just force. It scared Francis, because it was not something that he could choose to end. It was not something that he could choose to _want_. He had never disliked his reputation before—the smirks and winks and whispers—because it had never hurt him before; he had never been actively objectified like this at work before. Not since high-school had he felt more like an object than a human-being. He recalled how scared he had secretly been back then, how dangerous the city had seemed for someone so unwilling to physically fight back. That belittled feeling— _this_ feeling—is why he had become a police officer in the first place, to help those who couldn't help themselves. The victims, which is what he felt like now.

                "Please," he begged, appealing to Anderson's pity, his professional obligation, "let me go. I _don't_ want to have sex with you."

                Anderson huffed. "It's not real sex, it's just a fucking—"

                Then the stairwell door crashed open.

                "¡ _Joder_!" exploded an angry voice. "¡ _Hijo de la grandísima puta_!"

                Francis' blood went cold. He had meant to call Gilbert, hoping his superior officer would defuse the situation without violence, but instead he had accidentally called—

                " _Toni_ , _don't—_!" he gasped, but too late.

                Antonio grabbed Anderson by the throat and yanked him backwards, then threw his weight forward to push the Sergeant down the stairs. Fortunately, Anderson planted his foot, keeping his balance, but took Antonio's fist in the face.

                " _Get your hands off him_!" he yelled, wielding his fists like hammers. He beat Anderson into a defensive bow, then kicked the man down a section of stairs. The Sergeant landed with a grunt, hitting each step with his spine on the way down. Antonio's body arched like a cat's, ready to pounce, but Francis grabbed him.

                "Toni, stop! It's okay, I'm fine!" He tugged on Antonio's arm, trying to direct him away, but the Spaniard was wild with aggression. He shook Francis off as if he couldn't even feel him and leapt down the steps.

                In the doorway, Francis saw Lovino's wide-eyed face watching the brutal scene in horrified fascination. Then Gilbert appeared. He moved the Italian carefully aside and leapt down the stairs, flying past Francis to take command.

                "Toni—Toni, that's enough!" he ordered. He looped his arms beneath Antonio's and yanked back forcefully, provoking another spew of profanity:

                "¡ _Te voya matar_ , _pedazo de escoria_!" Antonio yelled. He twisted like the crack of a whip and slugged his fist forward. If Gilbert hadn't been a recreational boxer for six years, he would have lost his teeth. Fortunately, he dodged the strike and kicked the back of Antonio's knee, forcing the Spaniard down. He crossed Antonio's arms at his lower-back and pressed down hard, letting his weight and position incapacitate Antonio until the Berserker's fuel exhausted.

                Francis had seen his friends grapple like this many times in the training ring, and a few worrying times out of it, because Antonio had insisted that both Gilbert and Francis learn how to debilitate him as a precaution. He knew how strong and unafraid the Berserker was, and lived in fear of hurting himself and others if he lost control. " _Please_ ," he had begged them, " _I don't want to hurt anyone_." Gilbert had agreed, but Francis could never bring himself to do it. Part of it was simply his lacking ability. Physical combat was not his forte, and he only used force as a last resort; self-defense training at the department were his least favourite days. He wasn't physically as strong as his friends and he didn't care. But the bigger, truer reason why he couldn't bring himself to fight Antonio was because it dehumanized him. Even now, seeing Gilbert forcibly restrain Antonio as the Spaniard struggled, kicking and spitting curses, it made Francis feel guilty. Gilbert's hold was one officers typically used to immobilize criminals, but Antonio didn't look like a criminal. He didn't even look human, but instead like a wild, fighting beast. " _Hold me down_ ," Antonio had instructed them. " _I'll calm down eventually if I can't move_." which is exactly what Gilbert did.

                After several heartbreaking minutes, Antonio's flailing ceased and he closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the concrete floor. His breathing was still deep and shaky, his body still tensed, but he quieted.

                " _What the fuck are you still doing here_?" Gilbert snapped at Anderson, his voice hushed. " _Get lost_! _And pray you never cross paths with him again_!" He indicated Antonio.

                Anderson's face was pale, sweaty, and covered with blood. His nose was crooked and his lip was split. He left without a word.

                Hesitantly, Gilbert released Antonio and stood up. His clothes were rumbled and his silver hair was standing on-end, his tie pulled clean off, but he looked wearily relieved.

                " _Tonio_ —?" Lovino dared.

                Antonio groaned at the address and stayed down, covering his head with his arms.

                Francis slipped fluidly past Gilbert, who retreated to escort Lovino. "Give him a minute," he advised, steering Lovino back into the corridor.

                "But—" Lovino protested.

                Francis was already kneeling at Antonio's side. "Toni," he said softly, not a question, just sound; just Francis' soothing voice. "You're safe, _chéri_. I'm here, you're safe."

                Slowly, Antonio lowered his arms. "A-A-Are you?" he asked.

                "Yes," Francis promised. Gently, he slid his hands over the Spaniard's back and eased him up, into a hug.

                "You're c-c-crying," Antonio noticed. His wide, unblinking eyes looked exceptionally green as he searched his friend for other signs of injury.

                "I'm okay," Francis dismissed, pulling Antonio against his chest. He felt the Spaniard's cheek rest heavily on his shoulder, his hands grabbing desperate fistfuls of Francis' shirt.

                "I-I-I—I'm so s-s-sorry, Paco. I-I-I—I didn't mean t-t-to."

                "I know, _chéri_. I'm not upset. It's over, now. The threat is gone, we're safe."

                "Lovi s-s-saw," Antonio cried, burying his face. "I s-s-scared him. Again."

                Francis didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing. He rubbed Antonio's back and let him cry out his frustration in private, letting him vent until he was ready to rejoin society. Then he combed out his friend's dark hair and re-tied his tie, while Antonio wiped his face clean on his expensive sleeves. Francis chuckled at that, which made Antonio smile nervously, too.

                "Do you have any meds?" Francis asked.

                "No," Antonio replied, dejected. "I took the last one yesterday. I need to get more. I'm in a lot of trouble, aren't I?" he asked after a pause.

                Francis didn't answer that, either. He clapped a hand on Antonio's shoulder and smiled as supportively as he could. "We'll figure it out."

                They walked together back upstairs, but paused at the stairwell door. A look passed between them, a silent exchange honed from years of friendship. Francis' blue eyes glanced cautiously at his friend, the downward curl of his lips asking for confirmation; and Antonio replied, his green eyes smiling in reassurance even if his lips did not.

                " _Gracias_ , Paco," he said before they left.

* * *

**LOVINO**

Lovino waited anxiously for Antonio to reappear, afraid of what his boyfriend was experiencing; afraid—for Antonio's sake—what Anderson would do.

                The moment Antonio had heard Francis' call—Francis' static voice talking, not to him, but to a threat—the blood had rushed to his face in fury and he took off down the corridor, shoving people aside as he raced to his friend's aid. Lovino had been left to follow, confused and nervous about what he might witness. He had arrived in time to see Antonio hurl Anderson down the stairs, and then lunge after him like a beast. He had clapped a hand to his mouth in horror as he watched his boyfriend's fists bloody on the other man's face. Francis was there, stunned and crying, and then Gilbert pushed Lovino hastily aside as he descended into the melee. Lovino had seen the pain on Antonio's face as he was forced down, and heard the despair in his voice. The twisted, moaning figure of his boyfriend had been a stab of grief to his heart, and he had wanted more than anything to go to him; to rush to the Spaniard and cradle him, comfort him, like Francis did instead, because Lovino had been escorted away. "Give him a minute," Gilbert had said, steering the Italian with an immovable hand on his back. Lovino had tried to protest the dismissive manhandling, to insist that Antonio needed him, but one glance at Gilbert's face silenced him. He was pained, too, Lovino saw, having had to restrain his friend like an animal. And that—Gilbert's regret, Francis' tears, Antonio's pain—only made Lovino feel worse about it all.

                By the time Antonio and Francis left the stairwell, Lovino had anxiously twisted a serviette into a pretzel. He took an eager step forward, but Gilbert's hand on his shoulder pulled back.

                "Don't make a fuss," he advised.

                Lovino considered telling Gilbert off—his boyfriend was upset, for fuck's sake!—but thought better of it when he saw Antonio's pinched expression. He was trying hard to appear recovered, and Lovino didn't want to emasculate his efforts with coddling. Instead, he smiled kindly at Antonio and waited for the Spaniard to speak first.

                "I'm sorry, Lovi," he said, his voice a bit strained. "I'm so sorry I scared you."

                "No," Lovino lied. "I was just—surprised. It was so sudden."

                Antonio's green eyes were pools of sadness, but it wasn't the time or place for a deep discussion. He took the hand Lovino offered gently, like he was afraid of squeezing too hard. Lovino closed the distance between them, letting Antonio lean discretely against him. It didn't take long for the Spaniard to abandon the polite hand-holding and wrap his arm around the Italian's ribs, holding a trifle too tightly for someone who was not distressed. But Lovino was glad to be of use, and felt the tiniest bit smug when he looked over at Francis, who was standing alone. Yes, Francis may be Antonio's oldest and most trusted companion, the man whom he, by default, had always turned to for affection and comfort, but things were different now, because Lovino loved Antonio too, and he wanted everyone to know that.

                _I'll be that person_ , he swore, rubbing Antonio's back. _I'll be the rock you need me to be. I'll be what Francis is and more_.

                "Go home," Gilbert said, not unkindly. "I'll go to the office once this is all finished"—he indicated the gala—"and put the paperwork through for a suspension. Two weeks, Toni."

                Gravely, Antonio nodded.

                "Do you have your badge on you?" Gilbert asked, then took it from Antonio's yielding hand. "Two weeks," he repeated, "to pull yourself together; get new medication. I'll deal with what happened tonight, see if I can't convince the four-seven not to press charges. I _should_ schedule you for a psyche evaluation... but I won't if I don't have to. Just take some time off for now. You can stay at my place, if you want."

                Antonio swallowed and cleared his throat. "Thanks, Gil," he said, trying—and failing—to match the German's tone. His fragility was on pitiful display, however, when his sad green eyes lowered in punishment, and he asked: "Am I still invited for the weekend—?"

                Gilbert's reply was rather indelicate. He snorted, and said: "Of course you fucking are."

                Lovino was readying to scold him, but stopped when Antonio laughed.

                "Thanks, Gil," he repeated, a bit choked-up. "I really want to be with everyone," he admitted. "I promise I won't... this won't happen again."

* * *

Francis and Lovino had a hushed argument while Antonio was retrieving their coats from the coat-check about which one of them would take the Spaniard home. Lovino was, grudgingly, forced to cede defeat and yield the honour to the Frenchman when he logically argued that he and Antonio lived closer to each other's flats; and, less logically—but not untruthfully—that the temptation of his boyfriend's presence in privacy might be less relaxing for the Spaniard then Lovino intended. "Antonio's blood is already pumping hot," Francis explained, somehow making a conversation about sex sound like a biology lesson, "it's better if you just let him cool down tonight."

                Still, Antonio was adamant about seeing Lovino safely home, even though the Italian's flat was in the wrong direction.

                "I'll see you tomorrow," he said, bidding Lovino goodnight on the doorstep. "And I—I'm sorry about tonight."

                Lovino risked some intimacy and gave Antonio a kiss. "There's nothing for you to be sorry about. You livened up a boring party," he joked.

                Antonio's smile was forced; it didn't reach his eyes.

                "It was an accident," Lovino said softer, more seriously. He cupped Antonio's face, meeting his meek gaze. "Don't dwell on it, Tonio. It's okay. Dwell on the fact that I love you _very much_ instead."

                Lovino waved to the retreating taxi-cab as it carried Antonio and Francis uptown, but the second it was out-of-sight, his smile fell. Instead of going inside, he bummed a cigarette from a passing neighbour and smoked it down to the filter in the alley, trying hard to quell the stream of tears that rolled down his cheeks. He couldn't face Arthur and Matthew looking like something was tragically wrong, because Francis had made him promise not to tell either of them about Antonio's illness. It took a long time, and the twisted serviette he had taken from the hotel was stiff with frozen tears before he finally felt emotionally-stable enough to risk human interaction.

                _Maybe they'll be asleep_ —? he thought, but it was a futile hope. It was only midnight; he didn't expect Arthur or Matthew to be in bed yet.

                But nor did he expect them to be sitting on the living-room couch, facing each other, both wearing colourful paper-crowns and toasting with shiny cans of cheap beer.

                "Lovino!" Matthew called, seeing him first. He was flushed and laughing. "How was _the gala_?" he mocked an accent—though, it was so bad Lovino couldn't tell which.

                "Come, come yonder!" Arthur waved drowsily, like a disoriented host. He was speaking very loudly. "Join us for a toast, won't you, good man?"

                Lovino cocked a dubiously eyebrow at them. "How long have you two been drinking for?" he asked.

                Arthur pushed himself up a fraction, then flopped back down. " _Pish_! Now, listen here! Don't you pat— _hic_ —patronize me!" he said, wagging his index-finger. Matthew giggled. "It's— _hic_ —Christmas Eve-Eve."

                "Eve-Eve," Matthew repeated helpfully.

                "So, wipe that— _hic_ —scowl off your face, and— _hic_ —have a sodding beer!"

                In lieu of everything he had witnessed that night, joining his goofy, intoxicated roommates for a celebratory Christmas Eve-Eve drink sounded to Lovino like the best possible outcome. He took a seat between them on the old couch and accepted a beer from Arthur's swaying hand.

                "Wait!" Matthew gasped, clapping a hand over Lovino's mouth—and nose, and half of his face. He swung his head like a pendulum for a moment, searching the flat, before finding a small, cardboard take-away box with Chinese characters on the side. And before Lovino could protect the greasy top-hat, it had been planted merrily upon his head.

                "Cracking!" Arthur approved, readjusting his vibrant crown. "Now you've the proper attire, good sir!"

                "Cheers!" Matthew cried, and lost his balance. He toppled onto Lovino, who fell back against Arthur, who hit the deflated couch arm with an exhaled: " _Oof—_!"

                Lovino didn't ask where they had gotten the cheap beer—which tasted like bitter piss, by the way—nor why a half-a-dozen take-away boxes littered the floor, nor why the silly paper-crowns were necessary, nor why Matthew was wearing a mink coat like he was play-acting Danish nobility. He disregarded all of it, because, for once, his roommates were happy. Their eyes sparkled dazedly and their laughs were hearty and genuine, if incredibly unattractive, and for the first time in a long time they didn't shy from physical affection. Squished together on the lopsided couch, Arthur rested his cheek against Lovino's bicep, and Matthew wrapped an arm companionably around his neck, and the whole flat smelled like beer and greasy take-away, and if the Kirklands weren't so fully inebriated they might have noticed how cold it was in the living-room, or heard the shouting from next-door, but the warm press of their bodies softened Lovino's critique. He had witnessed first-hand tonight just how important it was to have good friends, who loved you at your best and worst.

                _Oh_ , _what the hell_ , he thought, raising his beer can high overhead. It cracked against his fellows', and together they hollered:

                " _Cheers_!"


	14. Thirteen

**BJØRN**

Bjørn woke abruptly.

                It wasn't a start, or a jolt, or a flinch. His mouth and eyes flew open in union; a soundless gasp sucked from the former, and tears leaking from the latter. He reached up to touch his face, afraid and ashamed to find his cheeks wet, but he remained silent. Inside, his heart was thrumming like the vibrations of a plucked lute; outside, he felt cold despite the sweaty heat of Mikkel's muscular bulk pressed against his back. The Dane slept with one arm resting over the slope of Bjørn's waist, the hand limply cupping his ribcage, pinning him to the mattress. He had to be careful not to wake Mikkel as he inched slowly away. Fortunately, Mikkel slept deeply; though he woke violently if not gently coaxed. He had the attack-reflexes of a wolf, but dreamt the animated dreams of a slumbering dog. He grunted at Bjørn's movement, but settled again after a few minutes of Bjørn tenderly stroking his bed-head. Bjørn waited a moment more, then swiftly left the bed when he was certain it was safe to do so. The last thing he wanted was Mikkel waking to find him gone.

                Light-footed, he crossed the large bedroom, bare feet creeping over sheep skin and reindeer hide to reach the window. He drew the curtain open to match his own narrow width, then stood naked in the wan moonlight, staring at the snowfall with dried tears on his cheeks.

                It was the same view he had been looking at since childhood: trees and water and mountains that had seen him cry more than anything else in the world.

                As a boy, it had been his happy-place, the isolated place his memory vacated to, to distance himself from the present. It's why he had so often looked vacant or aloof in the company of others; a psychological defense mechanism self-employed to protect his mind, if nothing else. The limitless expanse of the fjord's primordial power absorbed the shadows that haunted him. The immoveable mountains, impenetrable. He imagined the jagged cliffs as a jötunn's icy hands, crushing the faceless shadows between them; he imagined he heard screams in the howling wind. It was cruel and beautiful and liberating.

                But when he turned back from the window, his imagination faltered, and he once again faced a house full of wicked, shapeless shadows. Memories. Nightmares.

                Mikkel was sitting upright in bed, his royal-blue eyes breaking Bjørn's defenses with a single, poignant look. He extended his scarred, big-knuckled hand, and said:

                "Come here."

* * *

**GILBERT**

I'll wait with the car," Francis offered.

                Gilbert tossed Francis his keys without argument and followed Antonio into the old, two-level building. They knocked for politeness, not necessity; the flat door swung open the moment his knuckles carefully tapped the surface. Inside was a flurry of activity as the three occupants prepared for the weekend sleepover: Lovino was wearing nothing but a threadbare towel as he unclipped laundry from a clothesline strung across the living area; Matthew was trying to force a duffle-bag closed by stomping on it while tugging the zipper; and Arthur was juggling a cuppa tea and his cell-phone, trying to text without spilling, and had a marmalade-slathered crust of burnt toast hanging from his mouth. It was he who saw the two detectives first, but he merely glanced in their direction, unable to speak. Instead, he nudged Matthew with the toe of his sock, and immediately lost his balance. He teetered sideways, hot black tea slopping over the side. Gilbert threw out his arm to catch Arthur at the same time Matthew looked up. "Oh, hey," he smiled, seconds before the bag's zipper snapped under pressure and he flew backwards, landing on his rump on the floor. The sudden noise startled Lovino, who accidentally tugged on the clothesline and brought a whole cascade down on top of himself.

                From the doorway, Antonio applauded the sequence. "That was brilliant. Did you plan that?" he joked.

                He invited himself to some toast while he and Gilbert waited for Lovino to get dressed, for Matthew to find a new bag, and for Arthur to—actually, Gilbert didn't know what Arthur was doing shut into his bedroom, but when he finally reappeared he was wearing different, nicer clothes.

                _Not trying to impress someone_ , _are we_? he privately teased, then felt guilty about it.

                He wasn't sure how he was expected to treat Arthur, now. He was Francis' ex-lover, the man who had broken his friend's heart, whom his friend was still in love with; but he was also Matthew's best friend and only living relative. Antonio had chosen loyalty to Francis and made it rudely obvious by glaring at Arthur, but Gilbert was conflicted. He didn't want to risk isolating or insulting any of the people he cared for, so he very diplomatically chose to avoid Arthur unless directly addressed.

                _Just ignore another problem_ , _Gil_ , _it'll definitely go away_. He sighed.

                "Here, let me," he said, taking Matthew and Arthur's shared duffle-bag. Matthew's smile inspired him to take Lovino's overnight case as well, thinking to win some brownie points—and show-off his impressive strength—but he buckled unexpectedly at the sudden weight. " _Scheisse_!" he cursed, his attempt at chivalry backfiring as he dropped it. He glanced incredulously at Lovino, and asked: "Just how long are you planning on staying?"

                "Just the weekend," Lovino said cavalierly.

                He finished lacing his boots, buttoned his coat, and led Antonio out by the hand, leaving Gilbert to feel like a bellhop with both bags. Matthew offered to help, but Gilbert dismissed it. Heroically, he hefted the weight onto his shoulders and winked rakishly at his boyfriend, who offered a shy smile before heading downstairs. Gilbert wondered at Matthew's silence, then saw Arthur in his peripheral vision; Arthur, who took a deep breath before closing the door behind them.

                "Is he okay?" Gilbert whispered to Matthew.

                "Yes," Matthew replied, loyal to a fault.

                Gilbert touched Matthew's shoulder, stopping him on the front steps. "Are _you_ okay?"

                Matthew started to speak, but his soft voice was drowned beneath the hollers of Antonio, play-wrestling with Francis, who was trying to stuff him into the cramped backseat of the Mercedes. He had a hand firmly planted on the Spaniard's forehead and was pushing, while Antonio clawed at the roof in overdramatic distress, like a dog trying to escape the bath. Lovino was already inside the car, a look of disgruntlement on his face. Gilbert snorted when he saw them, but the play stopped as soon as the duo saw Arthur. Antonio ducked inside without a word, and Francis quickly circled around to the other side, saying:

                "You can have the front, Arthur."

                Gilbert deliberately ignored the tension. Like a parent scolding the children, he righted the front bench-seat, forcing Francis and Antonio's knees up against it, with Lovino squeezed in between them.

                "So, we couldn't have taken a cab, huh?" Lovino deadpanned in annoyance.

                Gilbert ignored the insult to his precious Mercedes and crawled in, straddling the gear-shift in the middle of the bench. Matthew looked confused at first, but smiled, genuinely, when Gilbert said:

                "You're driving, _schatzi_."

                Francis leant over the seat to present Matthew with the keys at the same time Arthur slid into the passenger-seat, accidentally brushing shoulders. "Sorry," said the Frenchman reflexively, drawing attention to the blunder and instantly making everyone in the small interior uncomfortable. Arthur nodded and muttered a polite dismissal, then inched forward until he sat on the edge of the seat, knee-to-knee with Gilbert, his posture geisha-straight.

                "Well, this is fun," said Lovino sarcastically.

                As Matthew carefully guided the car onto the highway, craning his neck and praying he didn't hit anything—the mirrors and back windshield were obstructed—Gilbert turned on the radio to try to dispel the tension. However, he regretted it when three different requests bombarded his eardrums from the backseat. "Fuck, it's _my_ car!" he said, self-important, "so _I_ get to choose the—"

                Matthew reached the dial first and deftly changed the channel. "Driver chooses the music, right, Gil?"

                Gilbert sat back in surrender. _It's going to be a long weekend_ , he thought, and smiled.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

 Matthew hated lying to Gilbert, and hated that this weekend would be filled with more lies than usual; lies that didn't just concern him.

                He was worried about Arthur's presence this weekend, but, truthfully, he would have been more worried if he _wasn't_ present, left alone to his own self-destruction. Matthew was looking forward to a relaxed, safe holiday spent with Arthur, but he was also, secretly, glad for the isolation of the Beilschmidt house, and that he could keep an eye on Arthur for the duration. He did feel guilty about blackmailing Arthur into such an uncomfortable situation, but he was confident the luxury of Gilbert's hospitality—central-heating, lots of food, private bedrooms, gifts and alcohol, and a fireplace as big as a walk-in closet—would make up for it.

                "Come on, Art," he had begged when Arthur had gotten cold-feet that morning, saying he had changed his mind about going. "You can sleep in a bed to yourself, take a long, hot shower, have mimosas for breakfast, and then spend an afternoon by the fireplace with tea and a book. It'll be like a vacation—you can stay in your pajamas all day, if you want," he bribed.

                He was glad to see Arthur's green eyes widen in surprise when they reached the Beilschmidt house—" _Ah yes_ , _Beilschmidt Manor_!" Antonio growled in a harsh German accent—because he had been silent the whole drive, despite being the biggest, most pretentious music snob Matthew knew. Matthew had briefly feared that his cousin intended to spend the whole weekend in silent protest, but the splendour of the house reanimated him. He exited the car slowly, staring dazedly at the grandeur of the estate. Matthew took his arm and escorted him inside behind Gilbert, who was, again, saddled with luggage.

                " _Blimey O'Riley_ ," Arthur whispered in awe.

                "I know, right?" Matthew smiled, pleased.

                Arthur looked at him, very seriously, and said: " _Marry him._ "

                Matthew rolled his eyes. "Please don't steal from my boyfriend, Art."

                Just then, two large dogs barrelled down the corridor into the entrance-hall, barking deafeningly.

                " _Ah_!" Lovino yipped, and grabbed Antonio to use as a human-shield.

                " _Sit_ ," Gilbert ordered in German, then knelt to greet the excited canines. "Don't like dogs?" he asked Lovino.

                "Um, no," Lovino admitted, receiving two incredulous looks from Francis and Antonio, as if the Italian had stated he hated babies or ice-cream. (Lovino had told Matthew once that he had had a rather intense rivalry with his brother's Italian Greyhound.)

                "Give me your hands, just for a second," Gilbert said, waving forth Lovino and Arthur. He took them both by the wrist and pulled forward to let the dogs sniff; Lovino squirmed. " _Friends_ ," he said sternly.

                The moment the dogs were released from their forced _sit_ , one—the younger, energetic one—circled Matthew expectantly, its bulk nearly knocking him over; the other went directly to Arthur.

                "Hello, chap," he said quietly. He sunk into a kneel, his tartan coat flared at his feet. "You're a handsome lad, aren't you? Oh, yes you are," he cooed affectionately, scrubbing the dog under its chin while its fluffy tail thumped the hardwood. "What a good boy."

                "Oh, weird," Gilbert mused, pleasantly surprised. "He doesn't usually respond so well to strangers."

                "Art loves dogs," Matthew said before Arthur could. "We've both wanted a dog since—well, forever. What kid doesn't want a dog?"

                "That one," Gilbert joked, pointing to Lovino. "It's okay," he added, noting the Italian's unease. "They're huge sucks because my brother spoils them. They won't hurt you on purpose."

                "On purpose—?" Lovino repeated, skeptical. He was eyeing Matthew, who was presently being corralled by one-hundred-and-thirty pounds of fur and solid muscle.

                "I feel so rejected," Antonio pouted. "You've both betrayed me," he aimed at the dogs. "I thought I was your favourite."

                "It looks like Matthew's the favourite, now," Francis teased, intentionally overlooking Arthur.

                Gilbert shrugged. "It's probably because you smelled like me when they met you, _schatzi_ —" He stopped fast, realizing his mistake, but too late. His friends were already grinning.

                "Oh?" said Francis suggestively.

                " _Ow-aroo_!" Antonio howled, provoking the dogs to bark.

                "Is there a room I can leave my things in?" Arthur interjected, standing. Matthew was grateful; his face was hot in embarrassment.

                "Oh, yeah, of course," Gilbert said, eager to escape his faux-pas. He glanced apologetically at Matthew, then led the party upstairs.

                Matthew watched Francis and Arthur get caught in a painfully awkward dance on the first step—"go ahead," said Arthur; "no, you first," said Francis—then followed them to the second-level, where Gilbert clapped his hands like a tour guide.

                "Okay, so... there's six bedrooms," he said, smiling transparently, "but one of them is being used for storage, and another is my Vater's room, so it's completely off-limits. My room"—he pointed to where he and Matthew would be sleeping—"and Ludwig's room, which only leaves..."

                "Two spares," Francis finished.

                It was quiet for a moment, no one making eye-contact, then Arthur retreated. "I'll sleep on the couch—"

                "No, I will," Francis argued. "Arthur, you take the room. I don't mind—"

                "No, it's fine. I'm used to—"

                "Oh, for fuck's sake," Lovino groaned. Annoyed, he grabbed his case's strap and dragged it laboriously across the floor. "I'll share with Arthur, Francis will share with Tonio. Is that okay?"

                There were a few head-bobs of reluctant agreement.

                As Francis and Antonio disappeared into one bedroom to deposit their bags, Matthew heard Arthur mumble a relieved apology to Lovino. Lovino shrugged, failing to hide his disappointment, then went inside.

                "Here," Arthur said, before he and Matthew separated. He fished in the duffle-bag for Matthew's clothes and toiletries and handed them over. "Oh, um... I think you forgot to pack pajamas, pet," he said, searching.

                "No, I didn't," Matthew assured him.

                Arthur failed to recognize the boy's insinuating tone. "Yes, I think you did," he worried. "What are you going to sleep in if not— _Oh_."

                Matthew felt himself blush redder as Arthur's baffled gaze swung between he and Gilbert, who was biting his lip to keep from laughing.

                "Oh," he repeated, re-zipping the bag. "Right then, I'll just... Right."

                "I think he'll be okay," Gilbert said when Arthur was gone, retreating quickly into his and Lovino's bedroom. "My brother's like that, too. We'll just fuel him full of wine at supper and the awkwardness will melt right out of him."

                Matthew agreed. If Arthur was still present enough to misread social cues, then there was hope for him yet.

                _As long as we don't leave he and Francis alone together_ , _I think they'll be okay._

Gilbert ushered Matthew into his bedroom with a teasing bow and a smirk, but when the door closed behind them Matthew's confidence fled. His boyfriend's persona was relaxed, a lazy smile on his lips, a playful twinkle in his eyes. He looked good— _really good_ —as he peeled off his jacket to reveal nothing but a black t-shirt, which hugged his chest and biceps a bit too tightly. Matthew watched, transfixed, as Gilbert stretched his arms up overhead, flexing his muscles in a way so casual it betrayed his licentious intentions, and he almost smiled, he almost laughed and accepted the flirtation, but he didn't. A cruel, twisted anxiety prevented him, because when he looked at Gilbert, his handsome white knight, he wondered what he had looked like last night; what had he eaten?; who had he talked to, joked with?; had he danced with anyone?; and why— _why_?—hadn't he wanted to do all of those things with his boyfriend?

                Matthew knew that he wasn't the partner Gilbert's family expected of him, but it wouldn't have mattered last night, because the family—Gilbert's father—had not been there. Only he and Ludwig had attended, Lovino reported. It would've been subtle. It's not like the police department had anything to do with Gilbert, personally, right? It's not as if the other guests would've recognized Matthew; Lovino hadn't had to tell anyone whom he was, after all. So, why had Gilbert not asked his boyfriend to accompany him, choosing, instead, to go to the gala alone?

                _Is he ashamed to be seen with me_? Matthew wondered. _Is he embarrassed by me_?

                It was a sad, sobering thought that stifled any desire he would have otherwise felt; a thought accompanied by self-depredating feelings and paranoia that would leech the happiness from the weekend if he couldn't be brave now.

                "Gil?" he said, his voice small. He swallowed. "Can we... talk for a minute?"

                Gilbert relaxed his posture, a look of concern on his face. "Yeah, of course. Is something wrong?"

                _Yes_ , he wanted to say, with confidence. _You've been hiding things from me_ , _and you think I don't know_ , _but I do_ , _and I want to know why._

                He tried to imagine what Arthur or Lovino would say, and how they would act (react). Arthur would be stark in accusation and immovable in argument; he wouldn't let messy emotion ebb his dignity. Lovino would be loud and impassioned and unafraid to rage and make a scene; unafraid to let the offender know exactly how despicable a man he was. (Matthew had once seen Lovino spit on a club patron who insulted him.) But Matthew wasn't like either of his friends, and he didn't want to make Gilbert feel despicable; he didn't want Gilbert to get defensive and refuse to talk, or—worse—lie; he didn't want Gilbert to feel attacked; but mostly, Matthew didn't want Gilbert to be upset with him. More than anything, he didn't want to do or say something that would put their relationship in jeopardy, or make the German scion realize that dating an impoverished East-End boy was a waste of his time and money. Matthew wasn't a fool. He knew he didn't belong in the Beilschmidt family, he didn't belong in Gilbert's world, but he wanted to stay in it for as long as he could, simply because that's where Gilbert was.

                _I don't want to lose you_ , he worried, _and_ _I really don't want you to hate me_.

                Nervously, he said: "Gil? I, um... I just wanted to, um..."

                Gilbert looked hurt now. "Matt, what is it? You can tell me anything, okay? _Anything_."

                Hesitantly, Matthew nodded. He took a deep breath, then, in a rush, he said: "I like you a lot, Gil, but it really hurt my feelings that you didn't invite me to the gala last night, and I want to know why."              

                He crossed his arms as a sign of rigidity, but he was shaking.

                Gilbert was clearly taken aback. His red eyes blinked in shock, then softened. "Oh, that," he said, somewhat meekly. "I..."

                Matthew clutched his sweater sleeves as Gilbert fidgeted, searching for the right words. Matthew hoped they wouldn't be a lie.

                _Please_ , he thought hypocritically, _anything but a lie_.

                "I—I'm so sorry, _schatzi_ ," Gilbert crumbled. "I want to tell you _everything_ ," he said grandly, implying more than a party. "I really do, but I can't. I just can't, not right now. Things are difficult right now, and..." He slumped onto the bed and ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. Matthew wanted to go to him, but he stayed firmly in place. "It's not that I didn't _want_ to take you last night," Gilbert said, looking up at his boyfriend regretfully. "I would've loved to have you there with me. I love being with you, I want you to know that, but I just can't risk you getting involved, Matt. I _won't_ risk you getting hurt."

                 Matthew was perplexed. "Hurt? What are you talking about, Gil? Are you in danger?" he asked, frightened.

                "No, no, nothing like that," Gilbert dismissed. "It's just family stuff. It's complicated.

                "I'm really sorry, sweetheart," he said for the first time in English. "I wish I could tell you more, I really do. I feel like a fucking dick not telling you, but it's private. It's stuff I need to deal with on my own, okay? It doesn't change how I feel about you. I like you—there's no one else," he emphasized so emphatically it made Matthew smile a little. "I hope, someday, I can tell you everything, but right now..." He shrugged helplessly, "all I can do is ask you to trust me."

                Matthew considered Gilbert for a moment, then said: "Okay."

                Gilbert stood up, surprised. " _Okay_ —?" Clearly, he had not expected unconditional agreement, but Matthew nodded.

                "Yes, okay," he repeated. "I trust you, Gil."

                Gilbert stared at Matthew, a twisted, undecipherable expression on his pale face. He looked confused, then upset, then relieved. Then he closed the space between them, took the boy's face in his hands, and kissed him deeply.

                " _I don't deserve you_ ," he said quietly, his head bowed.

                Matthew felt a swell of warmth, joy—love—in his heart. "Yes, you do," he said softly, cupping Gilbert's cheek. "You're a good man.

                "Not that I think I'm any kind of prize, or anything," he amended quickly in embarrassment, "I'm not a—"

                Gilbert kissed him again, a gentle peck to interrupt. "Yeah, _schatzi_ , you really are. I'm so sorry I hurt you," he said, pressing his forehead to Matthew's. Matthew closed his eyes; felt the brush of Gilbert's nose and the heat of his lips. "I should've told you sooner instead of trying to hide it."

                "It's okay," Matthew replied, sliding his hands over Gilbert's shoulder-blades. He moved fluidly, naturally, into the circle of his boyfriend's arms. "I'm just glad you didn't lie."

                Gilbert squeezed Matthew, a beat of hesitance, then he started to speak: "Matt, there's something else I—"

                Ludwig's voice filled the bedroom:

                "Gil, your _guests_ have invaded our kitchen, and are—" He stopped midsentence when he noticed the couple's intimate embrace. Matthew, resting his head on Gilbert's collarbone, opened his eyes and smiled demurely at Ludwig.

                "Hey, Lud?" Gilbert smiled in tight-lipped sarcasm, "one day I'm going to teach you how to _fucking knock_."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Arthur's day had begun worrisomely and progressed no better—anxiously, he had nearly begged on hands-and-knees for Matthew to release him from his obligation—but by sunset he was finally starting to relax. The Beilschmidt house felt like a hotel, as promised. The bedroom he and Lovino had been given was half as big as their entire flat, with a bed big enough for three, and an en suite toilet with a claw-foot bathtub. ("A motherfucking _bathtub_ , Arthur!" Lovino had shrieked in joy.) Once every inch of the bedroom had been surveyed and critiqued, the two friends giggling like high school boys on a class trip, they left to explore the rest of the house.

                "This place is huge," Arthur said, his neck bent back to admire the high ceilings.

                "Yeah, it's big, but it's barren," Lovino noted, adopting the speculative tone of an interior designer. "There's nothing personable about this house: no photographs, or memorabilia—no first-grade macaroni art. It needs colour," he concluded, just as Francis and Antonio walked into the lounge they were perusing.

                "Please, _yes_ ," Francis agreed. "Tell them that. I feel like I'm in a mausoleum."

                "A very, very expensive mausoleum," Antonio added, flopping down sideways onto a couch.

                Unlike the homes of the rich and famous, the proud Beilschmidt house looked more akin to a Danish decor showroom. Yes, the walls were a trifle bare, but the furniture was of very fine quality and understated luxury, made to be used, not just admired. Arthur liked it; it was not as intimidating a space as it could have been if it were bedecked with fragile pieces of priceless art. On the contrary, the wood-and-stone fireplace and sturdy, firmly-planted furniture looked like it could take a beating, which, Arthur speculated, was a relief in a place that contained Gilbert Beilschmidt.

                " _Ah_ ," Antonio sighed in bliss. He shimmied, his bottom sliding across the surface to get comfortable. "Now I all I need is—yes, that," he grinned when Francis produced a crystal tumbler and four stout glasses from the austere sideboard.

                "Cheers," they said together.

                The taste of barrel-aged, five-thousand-credit golden brandy coated Arthur's tongue and slid smoothly down his throat, effectively numbing his anxiety better than any pep-talks or friendly advice ever could.

                _Okay_ , he thought, sinking into a nest-like leather armchair, _this might not be so bad._

                By the time Gilbert and Matthew rejoined the party—ensconced, now, in the kitchen—Arthur's insides felt pleasantly warm. He sat at the breakfast bar, a safe distance from the competitive bickering of three men who all liked to cook as they prepared Christmas Eve supper. Arthur had tried to make some suggestions, but was brutally rejected by Lovino, who warned the others not to let him near the stove. _Rude_ , Arthur thought, especially when the Italian told him that "it's an English tradition!" was not an argument in his favour. So instead, he drank wine—Francis had wisely switched them all to wine after the one brandy—and used Lovino as a conversational shield, while always paying acute attention to Francis' whereabouts so as not to accidentally be left alone with him.

                The Frenchman looked good, though. _Kiss me_ , _Hardy_! _He looks so bloody good_!

                No adult man had any business being so goddamn beautiful. Francis was downright eatable, he thought, and was mortified to hear the words whispered cheekily back to him. He hadn't meant to say them aloud—thank goodness it was only Matthew who had heard. Good, loyal Matthew.

                "You should eat something," the boy insisted, removing Arthur's wine glass.

                Arthur frowned at presumptuous little Matthew—he frowned _up_ at him. "When did you get so bloody tall?"

                Matthew rolled his eyes and force-fed Arthur a biscuit.

                They feasted on three national pallets' worth of sumptuous holiday dishes—none of them English—and used the dining-room properly for the first time in six months, Gilbert said. ("What does _properly_ mean?" Antonio asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the tabletop.) Arthur sat in a high-backed chair between Matthew and Ludwig, who appeared to be Gilbert's opposite in everything—including table manners—except, perhaps, their appetites, and in the way they both scowled at Antonio's declaration that Spain's football clubs were better than Germany's. (The topic might have caused a riot if Lovino hadn't tactfully kicked Antonio's shin.) More drinks were served with dessert, including a bottle of ice-wine, which Gilbert had procured especially for Matthew, whose youthful pallet was the only one that enjoyed the intensely sweet drink. ("It's like drinking syrup!" Lovino complained, but Matthew beamed happily and said: "I know! I love it!")

                Antonio, Arthur noticed, was still nursing his second glass of white wine. He thought it was nothing, until, on his way to the toilet, he overheard Antonio saying to Francis in private: "I'm going to switch to beer now. Cut me off after four, okay?"

                _What's all that about_? _Does he have a drinking problem_? Arthur wondered, but the encounter was soon forgotten.

                It was forgotten, because the moment he entered the lounge—the big one with the fireplace and the view—Matthew announced that they were going to play charades. It was a silly, dated English tradition that their family had always participated in, and Arthur was happy to do so now; and everyone else, it seemed, was just drunk enough—or indulgent of Matthew enough—to agree, except for Ludwig, who politely refused and excused himself by saying that the teams wouldn't be even if he played. A self-sacrifice, indeed.

                Arthur was feeling quite a lot better about himself—

                —until he drew Antonio as a partner.

                "Fuck," they said simultaneously, making the others laugh.

                Lovino drew Gilbert, and Matthew drew Francis. Then a fiercely competitive game of charades commenced.

* * *

**LOVINO**

 Oh my God, how is that a fucking _bird_?" Lovino seethed, stabbing a finger at his partner.

                "It's a bird!" Gilbert argued, determined. "See—? Wings!" he flapped his arms. "And they do this—this thing," he insisted, acting in a way no one could decipher.

                "You look like the fucking Lord of the Dance," Lovino criticized.

                "Face it, Gil, you suck big, hairy balls at this game," Antonio declared, sitting in an armchair beside Arthur's.

                "I do not! I'm awesome at this stupid game! Look— _fucking look_!" he yelled, doing an impression that had his boyfriend literally crying in laughing.

                "Have you ever _seen_ a bird before?" Lovino questioned in jest.

                "Yes, he has," Ludwig said, watching the game from a corner-vantage, like a gentleman at the opera... except he had a pyramid of empty beer bottles at his feet. "He used to have a bird. A little yellow canary he called Gil-bird—"

                " _Shut up_!" Gilbert hollered, going red.

                His friends roared with laughter. " _Did you really_? _How did we not know this_!"

                Gilbert glared at his younger brother, promising retribution; but Lovino didn't miss the way Matthew's violet eyes sparkled when he looked at sulky Gilbert. It may have been the alcohol, but the shy boy had never looked more at home than he did right now: sitting on the hardwood by the fireplace, close to Francis, petting a dog with one hand, and holding a syrupy-sweet cocktail in the other. A cocktail he had made himself, showing-off his bartending skills to the approval of all. ("Can you juggle the bottles? I want to see you flip all the bottles!" Antonio demanded, and then cheered when Matthew surprised him and dexterously complied.) _Good luck with the sugar hangover tomorrow_ , Lovino sympathized, thinking that a bartender ought to know better. Then again, the kid was only nineteen; let him make a few self-destructive mistakes. The subtle way in which Gilbert kept watch over Matthew was proof that the boy would be well cared for tonight, whatever his nocturnal activities included. (At this point, Lovino would've placed his bet on vomiting.)

                "It was a bird," Gilbert mumbled, falling onto the couch with his arms crossed; the sudden impact propelled Lovino up an inch.

                "Sure thing, Michael Flatley," he said, reactivating the game's app on Gilbert's cell-phone. "Your turn, Matt."

                Matthew glanced at the word, thought for a minute, then acted in a convoluted fashion Lovino couldn't begin to understand, but it only took Francis five seconds to yell:

                " _Casablanca_!"

                "Yes!"

                "God-fucking-damn-it!" Antonio groaned. "How the hell are you two amazing at this? You barely know each other!"

                "Clearly, we're soul-mates," Francis teased, clasping hands with Matthew in celebration.

                "Clearly," Matthew parroted proudly.

                He sat down in front of Francis, whose legs were now crossed on the couch, and who began absently playing with the boy's pale-blonde curls. He combed his fingers through the satiny locks, a sedate smile on his face—Matthew had that effect on people, especially when he, himself, was feeling good—and even began to hum softly as Arthur and Antonio took centre-stage. Francis _looked_ happy, Lovino thought, but it was _definitely_ due to the liquor in his case. All night he had been stealing baleful glances at Arthur when he thought no one was looking. _Matt is a good distraction for him_. Indeed, they looked so weirdly alike, Lovino would have guessed them relatives if he didn't know better. And he had never known Matthew to be so content or familiar with a near-stranger before. It was disarming, but also kind of cute.

                "They have a weirdly similar—aura," he whispered to Gilbert.

                Gilbert lifted an eyebrow. " _Aura_? What are you, a Tibetan monk?"

                "Fuck you," Lovino denounced.

                "This is our last chance, so don't fuck it up," Antonio growled at Arthur, who stood to mime his performance.

                "Yes," Arthur replied sarcastically, "because this _one_ last point will skyrocket us right into first place."

                "It's not my fault we're last!"

                "Yes, it is," Arthur argued, unafraid of the Spaniard's temper. "If you understood the rules of the game—"

                " _I understand the fucking game_!" Antonio yelled. " _It's_ you _I don't understand_!"

                "Tonio," Lovino intervened, at the same time Francis warned: "Toni, enough." The dog beside Matthew lifted its head in concern; the other whined.

                Antonio seemed to shrink a little. "I-I-I—I said four," he mumbled sheepishly to Francis, his green eyes going guiltily to a triad of beer bottles.

                Francis' eyes were kind, but his tone was firm. "Enough," he repeated.

                Antonio hesitated, then nodded. "Sorry," he said to Arthur, redirecting his irritation. He leant forward on his knees, ready to play, and said: "Go."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Is there any point in tallying the scores?" Lovino droned. He was back on the couch with Antonio, his dark head lazily resting in the Spaniard's lap.

                Arthur thought not. Despite his heroic effort to earn a few extra points, cleverly—read: spitefully—portraying Francis Drake's defeat of the infamous Spanish Armada for the work _sink_ , Antonio had not been impressed, and had, instead, guessed Blas de Lezo's victory at Cartagena de Indias. This provoked a rather heated staring-contest and the immediate disqualification of Team Kirkland-Carriedo for the language that followed.

                "Do we really need to give Coco and her little prodigy a reason to gloat?" Lovino asked rhetorically.

                Gilbert, opposite Lovino, frowned. "Huh—?"

                Lovino gestured to Francis and Matthew, both of whom smiled sweetly in sweeping victory.

                "Hey!" Gilbert said, a beat too late. "Will you stop messing with my boyfriend's hair already? What are you, two girls at a slumber party? He looks—"

                "Adorable," Francis cut-in. Matthew was leaning comfortably against Francis' knees, while Francis finished securing a braided crown at the back of his head, which mimicked the look of a young, blonde Coco Chanel. "Just look at him," Francis said, gently squeezing Matthew's cheeks. "So cute!"

                "He's not a doll, Fran," Antonio laughed.

                "You're squishing my face," Matthew voiced, as if just noticing.

                "Beauty is pain, _chéri_."

                Arthur watched the scene from his perch in the big armchair; it nearly swallowed him. He hadn't refilled his glass in a while and he could feel himself sobering, which was dangerous. A sober state was an anxious one for Arthur Kirkland, who was, surprisingly, having a good time and didn't want to spoil it by being himself. A drunk Arthur was a fun Arthur, Matthew's high-school friend Alfred used to say. ( _Little shit_.) But in this crowd, in this awkward situation, it was probably for the best if he made himself another drink. Everyone—sans Antonio (who had vindictively caused them to lose the game on purpose, Arthur was certain)—was being nice to him, but, as that in itself was abnormal, it didn't make him feel like less of a pariah. And it certainly didn't help that only six feet away sat his ex-lover, looking so damn good and being so damn sweet with Arthur's young cousin. It had provoked a parade of unexpected, unwanted thoughts to materialize as they played; deadly thoughts, like: " _I wonder what he smells like tonight_? _Does he roll out of bed looking like that_? _Who's bed is he sleeping in now_?" ; and even worse: _He's so sweet with Matthew. I bet he loves children. I wonder how many children he wants_? _I'd like at least two_ —

                Arthur slapped his cheeks to rid the fantasy, then saw Ludwig frowning at him and got up to make himself a self-fortifying sixth drink.

                On his return, he met Matthew in the corridor, who eagerly turned him around by the shoulders and steered him into the _other_ , smaller lounge, where the happily intoxicated crowd was huddled around the television, trying to get a different game app from Antonio's cell-phone to connect. When it did, the television screen coming alight with a display of neon lights and noise, Arthur took a step back.

                "Oh, no," he said indefinitely. "I am _not_ playing that. I can't dance!" he argued—begged—as Lovino grabbed his wrist and Matthew propelled him from behind, herding him into the centre of the room, where all of the furniture had been pushed aside.

                "So? Neither can Matt," Lovino justified. "It's just for fun."

                "Said the professional dancer," Gilbert scoffed. He, too, had a fresh beer in hand.

                "This is your revenge, isn't it?" Arthur glared at Antonio, who wiggled his eyebrows villainously as he began a New Game.

                "Teams?" he asked.

                "Let's just shift to the right," Gilbert suggested, pointing to Lovino, Matthew, and Arthur respectively. It was said casually, but Arthur was grateful for the German's subtle tact: it avoided the risk of Arthur and Francis ending up as partners, as the first draw had done; and, as a bonus, ensured that Antonio and Lovino were not on the same team.

                _Well played_ , _Detective Beilschmidt_ , Arthur silently congratulated.

                As such, he found himself partnered with Gilbert, Lovino would partner Francis, and Antonio was stuck with Matthew, whose first words to the Spaniard were a pre-emptive: "Sorry."

                Antonio smiled. "Come on, Matt, you can't be that bad."

                "Oh yes, he can," Lovino warned. "You're all about to witness why Matt's a bartender and not a dancer," he said as Antonio and Matthew drew the first turn.

                "Don't you worry," Antonio reassured a blushing Matthew, "I can make anyone look hot on the dance-floor."

                "Wait, wait!" Lovino scissored his hands sideways, the universal sign for _hold on a minute_! "Let's make a bet. If you and Matt have less than fifty points by the game's end, I win," he challenged his boyfriend. "If you have more, you win."

                "And the loser has to—?"

                "Anything you want," Lovino offered, confident. "There's no way you're going to win, not with Matt as your partner—no offense, Matt."

                Antonio cocked his head, a wily smirk on his face. "I think you're underestimating what an amazing dancer I am, _cariño._ Are you really sure you want to risk it?"

                Lovino nodded. "Positive. In fact, I'll even let _him_ decide the loser's punishment." He pointed to Gilbert.

                Gilbert lifted two thumbs. "I'm in full-support of this bet. Arthur, Fran—? You guys want in?"

                "I'm with Lovino," Arthur admitted. He offered Matthew a consoling look, but said: "Sorry, pet. I've got to go with the odds."

                "Then I'll champion Toni and Mathieu," Francis declared. He patted Matthew's braided head. "I have faith in you, _chéri_. I'm sure you're not as bad as they think."

                "Thanks, guys," Matthew said sarcastically, "there goes my last shred of self-esteem.

                "So," he turned back to Antonio, "how does this game work?"

                "The app is connected to the T.V.," Antonio explained, "and the camera watches our movements. The game board"—he pointed to the television screen—"randomly selects a song or style of dance and we have a minute to try to do it, following the steps on-screen. It's fun," he promised, seeing the scared look on the boy's face. "The score tallies as we move, subtracting points for mistakes and adding points for _flare_ ," he teased.

                "Flare—?" Matthew repeated, nervously taking Antonio's hands.

                The Spaniard winked. "Ready to make Lovi eat his words?" he asked, throwing a cheeky glance back at his boyfriend.

                Exactly one minute later, however, it was Antonio who had been made to eat something, and that something was the floor.

                Matthew stood above him, both hands clapped to his mouth in horror, while the five onlookers roared with laughter.

                "Did you do that on purpose?" Ludwig asked, incredulous. He had, again, declined to participate, but stayed to spectate for the entertainment value.

                Matthew fervently shook his head. "Antonio, I—I'm _so_ sorry!"

                "O-kay," Antonio mused, studying Matthew as he crawled to his feet, "I might have to rethink my strategy."

                "I warned you," Lovino said primly, as he and Francis replaced Antonio and Matthew in the centre.

                Matthew retreated to Arthur's side and let the Englishman put a soothing—only mildly condescending—arm around him as a fast, gyrating tempo began. Arthur saw the relief on Matthew's face; at least he hadn't had to perform to _that_ , but the majority of his focus was on Francis. Lovino was a good dancer. His flexible figure moved in perfect time to the drum beats and choppy choreography, so used to dancing to much slower, suggestive songs that this saucy number seemed positively clean by comparison. It was Francis who was careful about where he put his hands; Francis who's steps struggled to keep-pace with the Italian's ribbon of movement, but that didn't mean he was a bad dancer. In fact, he was quite good, too. He was slower, his movements wider; his steps were sweeping and his figure moved with a fluid grace that drew Arthur's gaze like a moth to a flame. The minute was over too soon, in his private opinion.

                "Damn it," Lovino complained about his near-perfect score.

                "You're going too fast," Francis noted. "Go slower next time, I can't keep up."

                "Alright, Arthur," Gilbert announced. He chugged the rest of his beer, smacked his lips, and swaggered into the centre with a bravado that was more comedy than confidence.

                Arthur meekly stood and joined him. "I can't dance," he forewarned.

                "Neither can I," Gilbert shrugged. Then he leant down and, softer, so only Arthur could hear, added: "Keep your knees together and jump when I tell you."

                It was a rather odd order, and Arthur was sure he had misheard, but the music began before he could ask.

                It was, fortunately, a mild dance-number with more musical interlude than lyrics. Clumsily, he followed the steps on-screen, treading on Gilbert more than once; Gilbert, who seemed to be making up his own steps—making his boyfriend laugh, and his brother shake his head—until the end. Their point-tally was pitifully low, until the promised moment when Gilbert grabbed Arthur's hips and said: " _Jump_!" Arthur did so, and found himself soaring overhead as Gilbert lifted him in an arc. He choked on a surprised shriek before landing in a fit of laughter. On-screen, their score had doubled for _flare_.

                This was how Gilbert and Arthur survived the game: alcohol-fueled creativity.

                And on and on it went as the clock hands circumnavigated it's face and drink after drink was poured.

                "I can _totally_ do an Irish jig!" Arthur announced, inspired by a double-shot of whiskey and Gilbert's goading dare that he couldn't. "Hold this." He handed his empty beer glass to Matthew, then proceeded to bounce around in uncoordinated half-circles, tripping over his own reeling legs, until he accidentally kicked a coffee table and his dance degraded into hopping and cursing at intervals.

                "I like Gilbert's Lord of the Dance better," Lovino joked. "You're moving your arms too much Arthur. Your upper-half's not supposed to move," he mimed comically, looking like a penguin.

                "Alright, Mr. Professional Dancer," Arthur scoffed, cradling his foot, "let's see you do it then."

                "I will!" Lovino accepted.

                The Italian flailed around for a moment, then lost his balance and toppled into Ludwig's lap.

                "Damn," he said, unfazed as Ludwig righted him. "It's a lot harder than it looks."

                "I'll try!" Matthew said brightly, but he was met with a resounding, fearful chorus of:

                " _No_!"

                "Come on, Matt," Antonio said, resigned, like a man with nothing left to lose. He turned the game's difficulty setting up to the hardest level, and recklessly said: "Last dance; maybe we can win back some points."

                "Because that worked so well for charades?" Matthew teased.

                Antonio scowled, then pulled the boy against his chest, one hand clasping Matthew's, the other going to the curve of the boy's lower-back, and pushing a knee between his legs.

                The threatening first strums of a tango filled the room.

                Matthew paled. "No, no—I can't do this one. I can't— _ah_!"

                Antonio ignored him, a look of fierce concentration and competitiveness in his jewel-green eyes. "I think," he theorized, starting slowly, "I've figured out how to dance with you. I need to keep you as _close_ "—he jerked Matthew to the left, forcing rather than leading the dance—"as possible. Come on, Matt, you can do this," he coaxed, pushing and pulling; Arthur could see his muscles straining to guide Matthew's movements like a puppeteer. "Step back, forward; back again," he coached as they coursed through the seductive music, the Spaniard's steps getting faster and faster. "Now, turn—back, back, back, down," he said, dipping Matthew low.

                Arthur watched the dance, captivated beyond the superfluous vanity of everyone else. Yes, Antonio looked like a fucking sex-god dancing the tango, but Matthew looked truly happy, which Arthur liked the sight of even better.

                "That was fun," Matthew confirmed when the dance ended. "I actually stayed on my feet!"

                Antonio smiled, but before he could reply, Gilbert interrupted:

                "Fuck, Toni, I didn't know you could do that."

                Antonio shrugged with feigned humility. "And I didn't know you used to have a little yellow bird. Now we're even."

                "My turn!" Lovino insisted, leaping eagerly into his boyfriend's arms.

                Antonio laughed and complied.

                "Anyone else?" the Spaniard asked, a little out of breath after dancing with Francis and then Arthur, as well.

                "I'm good," Ludwig dismissed, taking his leave of the party.

                Gilbert chuckled and shook his head. Instead, he grabbed both of Matthew's hands and whirled him around to music of his own choosing. It was a much older song, slower and softer than anything else on the game's playlist. Arthur was surprised by it, but not disappointed. _It's not old_ — _it's timeless_ , he thought, lulled by the sweet melody. He swayed a little to it as he watched Antonio and Lovino fall into the demure rhythm beside Gilbert and Matthew. It was nice. He felt warm and peacefully dazed, and, because of that, it took him a moment to register the hand held politely out to him.

                "It's just a dance," Francis said, smiling hopefully.

                Arthur hesitated, then, wordless, took Francis' hand and let himself be led. He chose a position that hid his embarrassing lack of dance skills and avoided eye-contact; a posture which left him facing the windows over Francis' shoulder, but it didn't feel cold or distant. Arthur fit in the circle of Francis' arms, and Francis fit into his, their similar heights and figures making the slopes and divots of their bodies meld together like puzzle pieces. It felt natural for Arthur to thread his fingers through Francis'; to place a hand on the Frenchman's shoulder and squeeze in a gesture that said more than Arthur ever had. It spoke of love and lust and ownership, but also of loss and longing. It made his heart throb—not a thrilling pound, but nor was it a pang. Arthur knew it wasn't something he should let himself enjoy, as it would only confuse him—tempt him—but as his drowsy head lowered gently to Francis' shoulder, he felt at home for the first time in weeks.

                The spell was broken some time later—it could've been a minute or an hour; Arthur had lost awareness of the time—by Lovino's self-satisfied voice reading the final scores of the game, and reminding Antonio and Francis that they had a bet to settle. Antonio's daring tango had not been enough to buoy his and Matthew's humiliating score, and they had finished the competition in third place with forty-eight points.

                "Sorry," Matthew repeated as Antonio pulled his sweater off overhead, then his t-shirt.

                "Come on, Fran," Gilbert grinned. "It's time to pay-up. You and Toni are running from the patio to the tree-line and back, butt-naked."

                Francis pursed his lips, looking as if he had just swallowed something alive; looking as if he wanted to choke Gilbert, whose eyeteeth gleamed sharply in the neon television lights. Then he looked at Matthew, whose sheepish, apologetic face looked even more angelic with his braided crown, and the Frenchman's features fell into an expression of martyr-like sacrifice. "So be it," he said nobly, and began to undress.

                Arthur moved to the windows to view the duo's punishment, still swaying with the last reminisces of his and Francis' dance. He watched with a bemused smile, and didn't laugh or holler or wolf-howl like his fellow spectators. He, at least, was enjoying the feast of tanned flesh they were being served as Francis and Antonio sprinted—lunging knee-high and shrieking like madmen—to the tree-line encircling the vast garden and back. By the time they returned, they were both red-cheeked and panting and dancing on-the-spot to shake the cold from their toes.

                "A worthy effort, gentlemen," Gilbert mocked, tossing each of them a knitted throw.

                "H-H-Hey," Antonio frowned in retrospect, "if it's M-M-Matt's f-f-fault we l-l-lost, why didn't h-h-he have to run t-t-to the f-f-fucking t-t-trees?"

                "No problem, I'll do it!" Matthew accepted the challenge. "I'll do it even faster than—"

                "You're not going anywhere," Gilbert denied, looping an arm around Matthew's waist.

                Matthew cocked his head and pouted. "Why not? Jealous—?" he asked, dragging a finger down the German's chest.

                "Maddeningly," Gilbert teased. He grinned down at the boy wrapped in his arms, into a flushed, bright-eyed face unobstructed, for once, by pale curls, and he said: "You're so cute."

                "Hold onto that thought," Arthur warned.

                "Matt's alcohol tolerance is shit," Lovino translated. "He's just a baby," he cooed condescendingly, "and he's going to throw-up on you later. I guarantee it."

                Matthew frowned. "I will not," he argued childishly. "Don't listen to them, Gil, they're jerks," he told Gilbert, who didn't seem bothered by the prediction. "I'm perfectly fine," he insisted huskily, his demeanor going from excited to clumsily seductive so fast it made Arthur dizzy. As he spoke, the boy leant toward Gilbert, then fell against his torso when his legs buckled. He wrapped his arms around Gilbert's neck—for intimacy or support, Arthur didn't know—and found himself pleasingly nose-to-nose with his boyfriend, whom he kissed.

                Francis chuckled from a position of endeared experience. "Old enough to know better—" he teased.

                "—still too young to care," Arthur finished in reflex.

                He looked at Francis, and Francis looked at him, and they smiled, sharing the moment, and then it was gone.

                "I feel like I'm watching foreplay," Lovino quipped at the snogging couple, while at the same time rubbing his half-naked boyfriend's shoulders, trying to warm him up. "If anyone's dick comes back out, I'm leaving," he declared indignantly. "Unless it's yours," he added to Antonio, "then I'll stay."

                "It's bedtime," Gilbert suddenly announced, fooling no one. "You lot can stay up doing whatever you want," he offered dismissively, "but I— _we're_ going to bed."

                That said, he swept Matthew into his arms and departed, chased by Lovino's cynical send-off:

                " _I hope he throws-up on you_!"

                "Well, that was inevitable," Antonio said once they had left. He pulled his t-shirt back on inside-out. "Really, I'm flattered they stayed down here with us for so long. True friendship, right there. I say we polish off that bottle of brandy, just for spite. Who's in?"

                " _Huzzah_!" Arthur agreed.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Francis undressed to his boxer-shorts and a sleeveless white t-shirt, then flopped into bed. The frame didn't squeak, the headboard didn't rattle, and the hard mattress barely dipped beneath his and Antonio's weight, so stiff and solid. _No one would hear a thing_ , _no matter what you did in here_ , he thought tiredly, admiring the bed's discretion. _If only the walls were thicker_. (The party had migrated back into the larger lounge when they realized that Gilbert's bedroom was directly above them.) Antonio tossed off a number of pillows as he crawled in beside Francis, but Francis didn't mind. He didn't like a bed crowded with inanimate objects either.

                _Arthur does_ , he remembered. _Arthur likes to sleep in a nest. He sleeps curled-up like a cat. It's cute. He's so beautiful when he sleeps_ , _makes me want to hold him._

                He sighed deeply.

                "Fran?" asked Antonio at his back. "Are you okay?"

                It was often Francis asking after Antonio's wellbeing at the end of a night of reckless binge-drinking, but the Spaniard had obediently abstained since eleven o'clock and had been, at this point, sober for several hours. Francis, on the other hand, felt like his whole body was composed of cotton-balls. He felt full, but as light as air. He had barely noticed the floor beneath his feet or the clothes on his back—or, lack thereof; he had barely felt the cold during his and Antonio's mad dash outside. What he _had_ felt, acutely, was Arthur's head on his shoulder, his skinny frame pressed gently to Francis' and moving slowly as they had danced. If they had been alone, Francis would have kissed him— _and probably got slapped for it_ , he considered regrettably. Francis had caught Antonio's eye over Lovino's head and knew by his friend's sympathetic expression that he had made a mistake asking Arthur to dance. He must have looked like a desperate fool for Antonio to eye him like that. A subtle shake of the Spaniard's tousled head had advised Francis against further action, then he had lowered his mouth to Lovino's ear and whispered something that Francis couldn't hear. Lovino's face brightened with wicked delight and it was then that he loudly reminded everyone of the wager. In retrospect, Francis was grateful to Antonio for the wise interruption, but in the moment he had resented him for the emptiness he felt when Arthur stepped away.

                "Fran—?" Antonio repeated. He turned and looked over his shoulder at Francis; Francis could feel his body-heat. "Do you feel okay?"

                "No," Francis blurted without thinking. "I love Arthur, but he doesn't love me. And you're being so mean to him," he chided, channeling his repressed emotion.

                He heard Antonio sigh.

                "Fran, you're tired," he said gently. "Go to sleep, okay? You'll feel better tomorrow."

                "I'm not tired, I'm fucking pissed," Francis acknowledged. He knew it was the alcohol bringing about this drowsy tantrum, but he didn't care. "And I love Arthur, but I'm stuck here with you instead."

                "What's wrong with me?" Antonio asked sadly, jokingly, trying to abate his friend's misplaced anger.

                The tact worked. Francis sulked for a minute, but he couldn't stay upset. "Nothing," he relented. "I like you, Toni. But—" he rolled onto his back and looked up at the Spaniard, "—wouldn't you rather be with Lovino?"

                "Yes," Antonio admitted, "but I don't mind sleeping with you either. Just like old times, right? Remember all of those secret sleepovers?"

                Francis felt his lips curling into a reminiscent smile. If he had been Antonio's escape back then, then Antonio had been his shield. Antonio smiled back at him, and it was such a nice smile. It was Francis' best-friend's smile.

                "But _you love him_ ," the Frenchman whispered, urgent.

                It seemed suddenly important that they should discuss Antonio's relationship right now, alone, in the dark, at half-three in the morning. Francis knew that Lovino was special to Antonio; he could see it. So, why was Antonio being so blasé about his feelings? It seemed important for Francis to explain to him about love and commitment, as if Antonio were a clueless schoolboy and Francis a guru, but the Spaniard dismissed him with an amused twinkle in his green eyes.

                "Fran, you don't have to worry about Lovi and I. We're just fine, okay? Now, go to sleep."

                _But I do worry_ , Francis thought in secret. A secret, because he didn't quite trust the Italian yet with his best-friend's heart. _Toni needs more than what most people are willing to give. Will that be you_ , _Lovino_? (He didn't even know Lovino's surname.) _Before I let you have him for good_ , _I need to know that he's as special to you as you are to him_. _I need to know you'll take care of him._

"Toni—?" he said softly.

                Antonio hummed in reply, then, a moment later, asked, "Yeah?" when Francis failed to speak.

                A long, loaded silence filled the space between them before Francis asked: "Why doesn't Arthur want me?"

                Antonio didn't answer. Instead, his sweet indulgence softened into deep, loyal affection. He pulled the duvet up over Francis' bared shoulders and pushed a stray lock of fine, blonde hair off his flushed face. He dried his cheeks, and pressed a tender kiss to Francis' temple. And, quietly, he said:

                "Paco, go to sleep."

* * *

**GILBERT**

Gilbert lay on his side in the dark, one arm shoved under his pillow to prop it up; the fingers of his other hand, his left, dominant hand, tracing a whispered touch across Matthew's skin. It was soft, cold, and discoloured where old bruises were taking a worryingly long time to heal, but he didn't flinch at Gilbert's careful strokes. He stayed asleep, enjoying the soundless oblivion of an alcohol-induced slumber, his body as limp as a ragdoll's. His cheeks were flushed, and his lips were rosy and swollen, and his long eyelashes quivered prettily as he dreamt. Gilbert was honestly impressed that the teenager had lasted as long as he had. ( _Grateful_ , he should say, because even clumsy, drunk sex with Matthew was amazing—his kisses had tasted like candy, his tongue laced in more sugar than liquor.) He got the distinct feeling that Matthew had been trying to keep up with the rest of the party's reckless consumption without the tolerance for it, as Lovino had said.

                _You're going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow_ , _sweetheart_ , he thought, smiling in pity. _But I'm glad you had fun_. _I had fun_ , _too. I always have fun when I'm with you._

Wherever Matthew was, was where Gilbert always wanted to be.

                _I'm so glad you're here_ , he thought more soberly, tenderly, and with no small amount of relief.

                Seeing Matthew so relaxed and gleeful, playing games, making jokes, imbued with liquid-courage enough to forget his fears and anxiety, all made Gilbert really happy. He loved having Matthew in his home, never more than an arm's length away; he loved how well he fit into his family—teasing Ludwig, spoiling the dogs; and he loved that he got along so well with his best-friends. (Francis, especially, looked like he had fallen head-over-heels in love with the boy.) As he lay there in bed, he felt lucky to have Matthew lying beside him, because the boy was unlike anyone else he had ever met. He knew that Matthew was a faithful partner who would never cheat on him; knew he wasn't shallow; and knew, inherently, that he wasn't after the Beilschmidt's fortune. If asked, he couldn't have explained _how_ he knew these things, but he doubted that anyone lucky enough to make Matthew's acquaintance would argue the opposite. He made Gilbert feel things he hadn't felt in a long, long time, and some things he had never felt before. It was a new and liberating revelation to feel so connected to—so loyal to—someone who wasn't a member of his own family.

                _Blood is a bond_ , his father had taught them. _Blood is forever_. _There is nothing in this world more important than family._

  _Well—fine_ , Gilbert thought, looking down at Matthew's peaceful face. _There's more than one way to join a family. Inducted members are important_ , _too._

                The proposal should've taken him off-guard, but it didn't. It should've scared him, but it didn't. It was a mere fantasy—for now. But _if_ Gilbert could close the Club 69 case; _if_ he could keep his friends and family safe; _if_ he could get that promotion and fulfil his father's expectations, earn the man's respect; _if_ he could somehow convince his stoic, traditional family that Matthew Kirkland was a good partner, then maybe...

                Gilbert knew now that he would fight to keep his nineteen-year-old bartender for as long as he could. He had felt horrible for not taking Matthew to the gala, especially after the boy's courageous confession. " _You really hurt my feelings_ ," he had said, making Gilbert feel like the lowest, cruelest being on earth. He should have listened to Francis' advice and not hidden like he was ashamed of his boyfriend, because he wasn't. No one had ever trusted him the way Matthew did, and that kind of devotion deserved to be reciprocated.

                _Well_ , _one other person trusted me_ , he corrected, and it was exactly that reason why he had to be careful; why he couldn't reveal his connection to Matthew just yet, for the boy's safety.

                _Family stuff_ , he thought bitterly. But he wouldn't think about it now.

                Now was a time to think about his boyfriend, his future—a future with Matthew in it. Could it happen? Could he really, honestly make it happen?

                Maybe, maybe not. But Gilbert Beilschmidt finally knew one thing with absolute certainty as he leant down and kissed his boyfriend goodnight:

                " _Ich liebe dich_."

* * *

**BJØRN**

Come here," Mikkel said, his hand extended.

                Bjørn didn't hesitate. He crossed the floor and crawled onto the bed, letting Mikkel's arm close around him. Then he curled against the Dane's upright figure, like a small, frightened creature seeking comfort. His willowy arms went up around Mikkel's neck, needy, and Mikkel's muscular ones ensnared his torso, his hands spread wide across the Norwegian's back. Bjørn's bare skin was cold and tingled where Mikkel touched. He laid his head upon the Dane's shoulder, his forehead pressed to the alcove of Mikkel's throat. The Dane kissed his pale crown in tender affection, his hand rubbing up-and-down the Norwegian's arched spine, and he said:

                "The nightmare again?"

                Bjørn's eyes scoured the bedroom, clinging close to Mikkel to blockade the shadows. " _Yes_ ," he whispered, an admission of weakness.

                It was silent for a moment, so silent Bjørn could hear Mikkel's measured breaths; imagined he could hear the blood pumping through his veins. Then the Dane's deep, rasping voice said:

                "Don't be afraid." It was an order, a forceful truth. He held Bjørn tighter, possessively. "They can't hurt you, not anymore. You belong to me now, _min elskede_. And I will never let anyone ever touch you again."

                Bjørn's body slowly relaxed, uncoiling in the safe envelopment of Mikkel's protection. Together they shifted down beneath the blankets, but stayed close. Bjørn rested his head on Mikkel's broad chest and, eventually, his eyes fell closed, shielded against the shadows that haunted him. He fell asleep to the feel of Mikkel's warmth, his love, and his strong, beating heart.

                Mikkel, his vicious, unbreakable protector. His mountain.


	15. Fourteen

**ARTHUR**

**25 DECEMBER**

God, you look like death."

                Arthur rubbed his bleary face against the pillow and groaned. "Happy Christmas to you, too, Lovino."

                He jumped a little when Lovino slapped his rump through the blankets, chuckling a reciprocal holiday salutation. "I'm showering first," he announced, rolling like a pudgy toddler out of the bed, and padding slothfully into the en suite.

                Arthur burrowed farther down into the bedding and shivered. He wanted to go back to sleep and sleep for a week, or for the rest of the day at the least, but eventually Lovino exited the washroom in a plume of warm, moist air, smelling like gingerbread, which roused Arthur. He shuffled past his housemate, who, again, noted how ghoulish he looked, and stepped into the still wet shower. The hot water felt good and he stayed beneath it longer than necessary, letting it slide over his body while he stood statuesque. At home, he imposed a five-minute shower limit upon himself, because hydro wasn't cheap, but here at _Beilschmidt Manor_ he didn't care. Here, he let the luxurious water run like he hadn't done since staying at Francis'.

                Arthur would never say it aloud—especially not to Matthew, who loved this manor—but he preferred Francis' flat to the Beilschmidt house, which was an agoraphobic's worst nightmare and a Danish minimalist's wet dream. He liked Francis' flat, because it was functional, nicely furnished, and proportionate to its occupant's needs. (Actually, the two-bedroom flat was one bedroom too many for its single resident.) It wasn't big, and didn't showcase any pieces of designer _anything_ , but there was a close coziness about it that Arthur liked. And it was colourful, like the Frenchman himself. Francis' housekeeping skills left something to be desired, but beneath all of the potted plants, books, laundry, and other homeless items, it was stylishly sophisticated; unquestionably the home of an adult, Arthur had thought the first time he'd seen it, and then felt childish for thinking so. It was a place in which he felt surprisingly comfortable.

                Reluctantly, Arthur left the soothing hug of the steamy en suite and, after an argument with Lovino about his clothes—"A sweater-vest, Arthur, _really_? You look like a virgin private school prefect."—he followed the primped and polished Italian downstairs.

                Francis and Antonio were already in the kitchen. "Breakfast?" Arthur asked. Francis glanced at the clock on the stove, and corrected: "Lunch, more like." It was already half-twelve in the afternoon, and the Frenchman looked a little perturbed as he cooked, trying, it seemed, to prepare the entire day's food all at once. He looked like a chef with his curls tied up and his sleeves rolled back, flitting around the large kitchen space, blending and stirring and flipping and glazing, while a sleepy Antonio slumped at the breakfast-bar, his tousled bed-head resting on folded arms, and with a transparent string of drool hanging from his open mouth.

                "Ah, there's my Prince Charming," Lovino joked, and kissed Antonio's bent head.

                " _Hola_ , _Lovinito_..." he murmured with a drowsy smile.

                "Sleep well?"

                "Nope," said Antonio flatly. "Fran drunk-snores."

                Francis scowled in betrayal, as if Antonio had divulged a government secret, but Lovino was uninterested in the Frenchman's sleep-patterns. He joined Francis in the kitchen and wordlessly began to help prepare the food, and Arthur claimed a stool beside Antonio in front of a plate of flaky pastries, still warm.

                "So," he asked, fingers dancing close to the plate, "where are our gracious hosts this morning? Still sleeping?" (He needn't ask about Matthew.)

                " _Pft_ ," Antonio exhaled. "Gil's never slept-in past eight, no matter how tired he is. He's way too well-trained."

                "Ludwig took the dogs for a walk, and Gil is downstairs in the gym," Francis explained.

                Arthur's hand was hovering over the pastries, undecided on which to choose, but he spared Francis a look of utter derision. "The gym—?" He sighed and shook his head. "Why am I even surprised? Of course they have a gym in their house. _Of course_ they do. And of course it's the first place he goes after a night of binge-drinking. Bloody-hell," he said, exhausted just thinking of it.

                Francis shrugged, unbothered. "Gil has a lot of energy. He's a restless soul," he offered poetically.

                "I think he has undiagnosed ADHD," Antonio added bluntly. "He can't sit still. He's always moving—pacing, or tapping his fingers. He's the worst person to watch T.V. with. But then—" he paused to yawn, exposing all his teeth, "—you don't get abs like Gil's by sleeping-in and eating sweets. Believe me, I've tried."

                Lovino rolled his eyes at his boyfriend, because whatever Antonio _was_ doing was clearly working for him.

                "If you say so," Arthur glibly agreed, taking a decadent chocolate pastry and slathering it with jam. He wasn't about to be jealous of the muscular physique of a man twice his size; not with his schoolboy figure. Arthur wondered if he even _had_ abs. He certainly had never seen them, and felt no shame admitting that fact aloud. Antonio chuckled, but Francis merely pursed his lips. He disliked their self-deprecating tone, even if it was only in jest. He never used it, himself, and he didn't like listening to his friends mock their own looks. He possessed an uncommon talent for seeing the beauty in absolutely everyone. Arthur had never met someone with such gifted, artistic eyes. But rather than feel expectedly false and cryptic, as artists were wont to be, Francis' compliments were undeniably genuine, coming from a place of kindness and love, and, shockingly, actually made Arthur feel good.

                "It's just their body-type," Francis said of the Beilschmidt brothers. "The whole family on their father's side is the same, tall and broad. They have a Dutch cousin who's even taller than Ludwig is—now _he's_ a handsome man," he purred in approval.

                Antonio made a noise of agreement. "Oh yeah, he's a babe," he said, drawing a bemused look from Lovino.

                "Talking about me?" Gilbert teased, sauntering into the kitchen. He was dressed and showered and pushing his gleaming wet hair back with both hands as he walked, which either made him look like a greaser or a vampire—or both, Arthur thought. His ghost-white skin was flushed and his long posture was lazy, though his red eyes were bright.

                "Lars," Antonio corrected.

                "Ah," Gilbert nodded, unsurprised. It was the bored " _ah_ " of a man used to fencing questions about his more attractive relative.

                As a change of topic, he drew deliberate attention to himself and, with a bragging grin, asked how everyone else had slept. When no one replied, he proclaimed—loudly, cheerfully—that he felt _fucking awesome_! though no one had asked, and, in fact, everyone but Francis pierced him with a stony glare. But Gilbert only shrugged, undaunted. It was easy to feel confident in your own house, having slept in your own bed, and being the only one present who had had sex the night before, Arthur supposed. Gilbert seemed to know this and relished in it, much to his guests' disdain.

                It wasn't long before Ludwig returned, proceeded by both dogs, who bounded into the kitchen with eager, twitching noses. "Go away," Lovino said, trying to shoo them while shying away. Since Francis was ignoring them too, the dogs retreated in search of attention and found it with Arthur and Antonio.

                "Don't feed them," Ludwig warned as the table was set. "If you do, you'll never get rid of them."

                "One minute they'll be perfectly reserved, the next they'll be humping your leg," Gilbert confirmed.

                "Ah," said Antonio, nodding sagely, "just like an Englishman."

                Lovino snickered at Arthur's scowl as he struggled to open a jar. He strained for a moment, before shoving it expectantly at Ludwig.

                "Your boyfriend is right there," said the German, exasperated, but taking the jar habitually. "Why me?"

                "Because your biceps are bigger than my thighs," Lovino replied, matter-of-fact. "I sincerely pity your future partner," he added, comically alluding to the size an entirely different appendage.

                Ludwig grumbled, but the jar opened with a satisfying pop.

                The food was wonderful, as expected, but Arthur found himself lacking an appetite. The pastry he had stolen was sitting uneasily in his stomach, so he simply nursed a cuppa tea, begging the excuse of a hangover. The others all ate and drank until they felt a little sick, and then those who had bought gifts for each other exchanged them. Arthur watched Gilbert and Ludwig hand each other envelops in a casual, expectant way that suggested they exchanged the same thing every year; then he watched the detectives exchange gifts. Francis' were thoughtful and wrapped-up in beautiful parcels. Antonio's were jokes, each one stuffed into a ball of bright, butchered paper. And Gilbert's were practical, which he handed over in the plain paper bags he had purchased them in. Arthur regarded all three in amusement, but he smiled genuinely at Antonio and Lovino's exchange. Both of them, short on cash, had baked sweets for the other and received each package with a kiss.

                Arthur's expression was a little melancholy, a little wistful, when a tin was suddenly thrust into his face. He blinked at Lovino. "But we—we don't exchange gifts," he said, confused.

                Lovino huffed. "Just say _thank-you_."

                Arthur put his teacup down and accepted the tin of assorted Italian sweets. "Thank-you... but I didn't get you anything. We never do," he said defensively.

                "You've let me live with you for a year," Lovino said, avoiding Arthur's stare. "And if it makes you feel better, they're just the leftovers from Toni's gift," he lied.

                Arthur nodded and swallowed a lump of unexpected emotion. "Thank-you, Lovino."

                "Share with Matt," Lovino ordered.

                "Where _is_ Matthew?" Ludwig asked, as if just noticing the boy's absence. He glanced questioningly at Gilbert.

                Gilbert's smile was a little sheepish as he stood. "I'll go get him—maybe."

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Matt—?"

                The German's raspy voice was as soft and quiet as it could be, but it still felt like a dog's growling bite when it reached the boy's ears.

                Matthew's groan was muffled beneath layers of bedding. He felt Gilbert's hand lay tentatively on the duvet, upon his hunched shoulder.

                "Matt? Are you awake, _schatzi_? It's almost two o'clock in the afternoon—"

                " _Shush_ ," Matthew said in a pitiful, sleep-slurred voice. He cringed and squeezed his eyes shut. "Close your mouth-horn," he begged.

                Gilbert chuckled and sat down on the bed's edge. The pressure on Matthew's shoulder increased, comforting as he rubbed back-and-forth. After a couple of minutes, the boy managed to roll over and cautiously peeled his eyes open, looking up at his grinning boyfriend. The bedroom was mercifully dark, the drapes closed, but the effort still left him feeling dizzy and disoriented.

                "It's not funny," he sulked.

                "I disagree," Gilbert teased.

                Matthew pressed a hand to his hot, pounding forehead. "I feel like I've been hit by a train. Everything hurts."

                Gilbert's smile tightened at the corners in sympathy. "A shower might make you feel better. And you should get some fluids into you—water," he clarified. "Do you feel up to it?"

                "Mm, maybe," Matthew agreed, pushing himself laboriously onto his elbows, then his knees. He moaned in a pained, sulking way, which only increased Gilbert's amusement. "How are you _fine_?" he said, glaring incredulously—jealously—at his boyfriend as the German helped him up. He shivered in the shock of cold, leaving the bed-sheets, but Gilbert's hands were warm on his skin, supporting him by the arm and lower-back. His thumb deliberately grazed the red birthmark on Matthew's hip, shaped uncannily like a maple leaf, and often mistaken for a tattoo at a distance.

                He shrugged, and said: "Experience. I'm a bit older than you."

                Matthew wrinkled his nose, then let his forehead drop pitifully to Gilbert's shoulder with a strangled whine.

                "Come on," Gilbert said amiably, half-carrying the boy into the en suite. He sat him on the toilet lid while the shower ran. "Should I join you?" he asked, gesturing to the glass compartment that was plenty large enough for two people, maybe three.

                Matthew saw his own reflection in the mirror: pale and rumpled, with bloodshot eyes, and covered in love-bites from the night before. His curls fell across his face in a soft, messy way, making him look like a French film star, if not for the purpling bruise on his cheekbone (a blunt reminder that he had lost his job). Because of it, he looked like the definition of _the-morning-after_ , and not in a flattering way.

                "Gil, darling," he said, slowly rubbing his temples, "I like you a lot, but I look and feel like someone beat me up, so you're bat-shit crazy if you think I want to have sex right now."

                Gilbert couldn't stifle his laughter, which rang in the tiled room. "No, no, _schatzi_ ," he surrendered his hands, "I meant, do you want help showering? Do you want to lean against me, or can you manage? I'd feel bad if you slipped and hit your head." He pouted to soften a legitimate fear, and Matthew couldn't even blame him. His legs felt as shaky as a reindeer calf's, but the last thing he wanted was Gilbert's coddling. His hangover state was embarrassing enough; he would be completely mortified if his boyfriend had to help him shower. He had his pride, after all, limited as it was.

                "I can manage," he said, standing and groping blindly for the shower.

                "Okay. I'm going to leave clean clothes on the bed for you. Come downstairs when you're done," Gilbert said, retreating slowly. In the doorway he paused, his amusement replaced with naked concern. "You're _sure_ you're okay?"

                "Mm hmm."

                Gilbert left, and Matthew took a long, steaming-hot shower that flushed his skin and made him lightheaded, but it was worth it to be washed clean of the night. He dressed in his boyfriend's clothes, taking comfort in the baggy folds, then tied-up his wet hair, and put on his glasses, hating the sharpness of the world as it came into painful focus. His head was pounding and the bright daylight felt like needle pricks to his brain. He felt tired and irritable and didn't relish the inevitable teasing he would soon endure when he joined the group of older, _experienced_ men, who had long since learnt how to avoid such debilitating hangovers.

                _I really don't want to smile right now_ , he thought, feeling equal parts guilty and annoyed. Why— _why_?—had he drank so much? Why hadn't someone stopped him, like Francis had stopped Antonio? He needed better friends.

                As he passed the second-floor toilet on his way to the stairs, it was Antonio who emerged.

                " _Hola_ , Matt. How are you feeling?"

                Matthew wanted to say: _I'm fine_ , _thanks_ , _just a little tired_ , but what popped out, was: "like I'm slowly dying."

                Antonio pouted and cloyingly said: " _Ay_ , _pobrecito_." He gently pat Matthew's head, but stopped when the boy winced and muffled a whine.

                His teasing immediately softened, not unlike Gilbert's, which only increased Matthew's discomfort. He had known these men for over two months, and had known Lovino for longer, but he had never felt so _young_ compared to them before. Now, it was on embarrassing display that he was a decade younger, and part of him wanted to crawl back into bed and die of shame, while another part wanted the older, wiser men to cuddle him and tell him it would all be okay.

                Antonio's sympathy fell into the latter category when he said: "Wait here."

                He ducked into the bedroom he and Francis were sharing, and returned a moment later with a small, white capsule.

                "You won't find painkillers anywhere else in this house," he warned when Matthew hesitated, weary of the unknown drug. "Gil and Ludwig think they're fucking warriors or something; _they don't need painkillers_!" he mocked in Gilbert's brash voice. He rolled his eyes and proffered the capsule with a trustworthy smile. "Go ahead, Matt. It's pretty potent, but it won't hurt you. It'll make all the bad feelings go away, I promise."

                Matthew accepted and deftly swallowed the drug. At first, he felt nothing. Then his gag-reflex kicked-in and he fought the urge to vomit.

                Pressing a hand to his mouth, he ducked quickly into the toilet Antonio had just vacated.

                "Uh, you okay—?" Antonio asked, rapping on the closed door.

                "Um, y-y-yes," Matthew coughed. "I'll be f-f-fine, just—" _cough cough_ "—need a minute."

                It took more than a minute, but he managed to keep the capsule—and everything else in his stomach—down without incident. He gagged a little and felt overheated, but the drug rapidly did its job and all of his aches and pains began to lessen. He sat on the cool floor with his back against the wall, his eyes closed. Vaguely, he heard himself tell Antonio that the drug was working and he was already feeling better. He thanked Antonio and told him not to worry; to go back downstairs; that he would join them all in a moment. He just needed to wait for the room to stop spinning.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Arthur was curled-up in the armchair by the crackling fireplace, burrowed in a blanket, cradling a cup of strong black tea, reading a book; Francis was lying on his back on the couch, flipping through a political magazine; and one of the dogs was asleep on the floor, mimicking Francis' posture. It's legs twitched, like it was running in its dreams. It was the first time Arthur had been alone with Francis since their breakup, but, contrary to his expectant dread, it felt nice. They weren't talking, but maybe that's why he was so relaxed, unbothered by the Frenchman's unassuming company, and feeling reassured because of it. It had snowed early that morning, and the frozen windowpanes glistened with ice, looking out on a garden of crisp, sparkling white. Somewhere in the house lurked the other occupants—Arthur could hear Lovino's laugh from the kitchen—but the lounge was a quiet, peaceful space.

                CRASH!

                The sudden clatter made Arthur flinch, and the dog's head bolted upright. It lay still for a moment, attentive, then leapt to its feet and padded urgently into the corridor. Arthur and Francis exchanged a look and followed, leaving their respective reading materials behind. It sounded like someone had fallen down the stairs and, sure enough, when they reached the entry, Arthur saw Matthew crumpled at the bottom of the staircase.

                " _Blimey_!" he gasped, shocked. "Are you okay?"

                Matthew looked dazed, like he was trying to process what had happened. Then he saw Arthur and burst out laughing.

                "I fell down the stairs," he said, pointing in the wrong direction, his head lolling to one side. His glasses were on the floor at his feet.

                Arthur stared at his cousin in disbelief. Francis swept past him and knelt, supporting the boy's back with one hand and tipping his head up with the other. "Look at me," he said firmly, studying Matthew's flushed face. He looked more like a paramedic than a detective as he searched the boy for signs of injury, then checked his pulse. "You're lucky you didn't break your neck," he concluded, scolding like a relieved but unhappy parent. "Just what were you doing?"

                Matthew blinked slowly, his brow creased in confusion. It was then Arthur noticed his eyes, the violet almost completely swallowed by his dilated pupils. It made him look innocent and bewildered, like a small nocturnal animal.

                Arthur knelt, too. "Bloody-hell," he realized, "are you on drugs?"

                Matthew swatted at Francis, then flopped against him. "Only a little," he confessed. Then he pressed a finger to his lips and made a shrewd shushing noise, like it was a secret: " _Shhh_!" he pleaded. "We can't let Art know!"

                Arthur looked worriedly to Francis, begging his professional advice. Francis sighed.

                "Come on, _chéri_ ," he said, hauling Matthew to his feet. "Let's put you back to bed— _Oops_!"

                Matthew's shaky legs buckled and he sunk heavily against Francis, giggling. "S-s-sorry," he slurred, bunching Francis' shirt in his fists for support. "I don't know where my legs went."

                "Matthew," said Arthur sternly, retrieving the boy's glasses and standing as well, "what did you take?"

                Matthew pressed his cheek to Francis' chest, big-eyed and sulky. "Toni," he said simply. "Toni gave me a tiny white pill." He demonstrated, holding his thumb and index-finger an inch apart. "It looked like a lima bean. An albino lima bean. A magic, albino lima bean that made all the hurt go away. Toni's a good guy," he smiled, sighing deeply. "I really like Toni. He taught me to curse—and he bought me glasses!" he remembered joyfully. "He's a good guy." He nodded decisively. "Do you like Toni, too? Toni-o. An- _Toni_ -o." He giggled.

                "Yes, _chéri_ ," said Francis, resigned. "Toni's very nice."

                " _Toni's_ very dead," Arthur growled. Then he yelled: " _Carriedo_! _Get over here_ , _now_!"

                "Fucking hell, Arthur— _what_?" asked the Spaniard, hurrying in from the kitchen. He had a beer in one hand, and Lovino in the other, and he frowned in annoyance when he noted the absence of an emergency.

                Lovino spotted Matthew first. "What happened to him?" he asked curiously.

                "Your boyfriend happened to him," Arthur accused, stabbing a finger at Antonio. "What the fuck did you give him? He's high as a fucking kite!"

                Antonio looked from Arthur to Matthew, whose dead-weight was slumped against Francis, his heavy eyelids fluttering as he fought to stay conscious.

                "I—nothing," said Antonio, weakly defensive. "I just—I gave him a painkiller, that's all. I didn't expect him to react like—like _that_."

                "A painkiller? Oh, Toni," Francis pleaded, "not one of yours, I hope? _Toni_!" he scolded when Antonio meekly shrugged. "The drugs you take are like horse tranquilizers! I can't believe you gave one to poor Mathieu! Just what did you think was going to happen?"

                "I—I don't know," Antonio admitted. "I honestly didn't think it would hit him that hard. I just—I just wanted to help. I mean, he's still breathing," he offered unhelpfully.

                Arthur glared. He was about to unleash a tongue-lashing upon Antonio, but they all froze when Gilbert chose that inopportune moment to appear. At first he was puzzled by the impromptu meeting in the front corridor, then his blood-red eyes landed on Matthew.

                "Matt—?"

                His voice seemed to revive Matthew, who tried and failed to lift his head. Instead, he groped blindly for the source, muttering: " _Gil_..."

                Gilbert's voice was harshly accusatory when he demanded: "What the fuck did you guys do to my boyfriend?"

                Francis wasted no time betraying Antonio. Like a playground snitch, he pointed fervently and said: "Toni did it!"

                Gilbert turned to Antonio, who stepped hastily back and pulled Lovino in front of him. "It was an accident," he said, smiling nervously. "I didn't mean to do _that_ to him. I was just trying to be helpful and, well, um... I gave him a painkiller for his headache, and... I think it was a little too strong."

                " _You drugged my boyfriend_?" Gilbert yelled.

                Antonio ducked behind Lovino, who looked displeased to be a human-shield. Arthur thought it was comical, despite the situation, or perhaps because of it, and likely only because the German's wolfish growling was not directed at him. Gilbert glowered impressively, but before he could do anything more threatening than shout, Matthew's hand snagged his sleeve.

                " _Gil_..." he mumbled.

                Gilbert shook his head at Antonio, who smiled widely in mock-innocence, then relieved Francis of Matthew's weight. He hefted him into his arms and started upstairs. "I'm going to put Matt to bed," he said, pausing long enough to stab Antonio with a glare, "and then I'm going to fucking kill you. I suggest you start running."

                Matthew, it seemed, only heard the word _bed_ , though, because he looped his arms around Gilbert's neck, and sweetly asked: "Sex now—?'

                And that's all it took. Immediately the blame and tension dissipated, replaced by unstoppered amusement at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. Arthur managed to stifle a snort, but the other three did not. Gilbert blushed as the anger rapidly fled his face. He swallowed whatever retort he wanted to throw at his snickering audience, and, with great restraint, forced a gentle tone.

                "No, honey, sleep now," he corrected, and resumed his climb. "And say goodbye to Toni, because he won't be alive when you wake up."

                "Mm, okay," Matthew agreed. His hand flapped in a sleepy wave. "Bye, Toni-o..."

                By the time Gilbert reached the landing, Matthew was already asleep.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Are you feeling okay?" Francis asked, keeping his voice low for privacy.

                Arthur's amused smile fell at the sudden query, making Francis instantly regret it. He didn't want to appear overbearing, but nor could he hide his concern.

                The Englishman stood with his shoulders arched, his arms crossed over his chest to fend off a chill, removed, now, from the fireplace and blanket he had been wearing in the lounge. He looked uncommonly pale, too. Francis had thought it was the physical sign of a hangover, but Arthur's pallor had not improved as the day progressed. He hadn't eaten much at lunch, and he hadn't drank anything but tea. Lovino's blunt observations of how ghastly Arthur looked were insensitive, but not untrue. He appeared very tired, indeed, though Francis couldn't explain how it was different from any other day, because, to be honest, Arthur usually looked tired and a bit worn.

                But he didn't appreciate having it pointed out, because his green eyes narrowed guardedly, and he said: "I'm fine."

                "Oh, okay, that's good." Pause. "Are you cold?" Francis suggested, needing something—preferably something innocent—to blame for the Englishman's weariness.

                "I'm always cold," Arthur said curtly, then strode back into the lounge.

                Francis pursed his lips, unconvinced, but he let it go. He knew the Englishman wasn't someone who could be goaded into sharing, nor bullied into taking advice, and the last thing Francis wanted to do was embarrass him into an iron defense. Gilbert and Antonio had told him many times—usually when Francis was re-tying ties or wiping food off of their faces unasked—that he had a habit of _mothering_ his friends, which understandably made many capable adult men feel belittled. But he couldn't help it. He was a natural caregiver, he always had been. Antonio called it a product of foster-care, telling Francis that he had been forced to grow-up too fast; not that the Spaniard had ever complained about it when Francis fussed over him in high-school. It annoyed Gilbert to no end, though, whose childhood had been carefully formulated to produce proud, independent, and self-sufficient young men ( _pft_ , Francis thought, _Herr Beilschmidt has obviously never seen his eldest son accidentally lock himself in a closet_. Gilbert was petrified of small spaces). But Francis _liked_ knowing that his friends and loved ones were being taken care of, and if he could contribute to their well-being, why shouldn't he?

                (Antonio had also requested on more than one occasion that Francis stop scaring off his potential boyfriends by doing and saying things unbefitting a person of _friend_ status.

                "Could you maybe _not_ button up my coat or prattle off my weekly appointments in front of them?" he asked.

                "Perhaps _they_ should take more care to prevent you from getting hypothermia," Francis had argued in a huff. It was just such carelessness on the part of Antonio's fleeting boyfriends that made Francis believe no one would ever be good enough for his best friend.)

                But Arthur was not like Antonio or Gilbert, both of whom would always need someone to keep them in order, whether they admitted it or not. Arthur was, in fact, much more alike Francis. He was the necessary caretaker of his family and friends, the self-sacrifice for Matthew and Lovino's well-beings. Francis had known that since the first time he had visited Arthur's flat, seeing his protectiveness in the way Arthur dismissed the others' concern, reassured them with a smile, and stepped out into the corridor with an aura of confidence that promised he would handle everything. _Not to worry_ , said Arthur's whole being, while hiding the fact he was serving himself up as an offering in exchange for their safety.

                _How can I even compare myself to him_? Francis thought now, ashamed of himself. He might have been a tedious, mothering figure, but Arthur was a natural-born protector, something Francis had always been too afraid to truly be. He had always had someone else to rely on, like Arthur never had. He was not the person who caused the mess in a display of loyalty, leadership, or even love; he was the person who cleaned up afterward. Francis Bonnefoi was good at bureaucratic paperwork, good at manipulating the legal system, good at giving hugs and kisses, not good at reckless abandon or heroism in the face of danger. And it had always been his secret disappointment, because he wasn't brave like his friends and colleagues. He wasn't brave like Arthur, and he probably never would be.

                It hurt Francis to know what Arthur suffered, at least in part, but he also knew that the steadfast Englishman would hate him for showing any kind of sympathy.

                So, after a respectful pause, which he used to rearrange his expression, he followed Arthur back into the cozy lounge. The fireplace was still bright, and the windows were still frosted prettily, but Arthur's book and blanket were gone and the Englishman, himself, was nowhere in sight. A clear refusal of company, if ever Francis saw one.

                Sighing, he picked up the magazine he had been reading, put it down again, and went to the kitchen to bake.

* * *

**LOVINO**

Lovino was walking by the front door when a knock sounded.

                _What breed of uncivilized brute knocks when there's a perfectly good doorbell_? he grumped, opening it to reveal a tall, blonde man.

                "Hello," he said casually, hands in the pockets of a long, charcoal overcoat that hung open. A blue-and-white striped scarf was looped around his neck, and his skin was flushed with abrasive cold and health. The breeze tousled his silver-blonde hair, sweeping a strand into his sculpted face.

                Lovino tipped his head back, looking up at the handsome stranger. "Could you speak up, please? It's hard to hear you from down here."

                The man chuckled. "I'm Lars van den Berg, Gil and Lud's cousin," he introduced himself, extending his hand.

                Lovino blinked. "Did we somehow summon you?"

                "Excuse me?"

                "Never-mind," he dismissed. He took Lars' hand. "I'm Lovino, Gilbert's—friend." _Huh_ , _that sounds weird to say_ , he thought, but realized with a secret fondness that it was true. "I'm Antonio Fernández Carriedo's boyfriend."

                "Oh, I know Antonio," Lars affirmed. "Spanish gent, really loud, looks a little like a dog begging for cookies."

                "That's him," Lovino smiled brightly. It was then he heard approaching footsteps and turned to see Ludwig. "Ludwig!" he called needlessly. "Your more fashionable clone is here!"

                Lars nodded in thanks for the announcement, then reached over Lovino's shoulder to clasp Ludwig in a half-handshake, half-hug. Lovino ducked out of the way, then led the two large, blonde men into the house. At the foot of the staircase, they met Gilbert descending. With a wicked smirk, he launched himself at Lars, making Lovino squeak and the dogs bark excitedly, and then scrubbed his young cousin's styled hair until it flattened and Lars pried him off, saying: "Happy Christmas to you, too, motherfucker." Lars was thereafter invited to join the party ensconced in the lounge. He exchanged friendly greetings with Francis and Antonio, and was introduced to Arthur, who whispered an appreciative " _blimey_ " to Lovino as he discretely appraised the newcomer. Lovino generally preferred darker, leaner men than Lars, but even he couldn't deny the Dutchman's flawless good-looks.

                "So, what are you doing here anyway?" Gilbert asked conversationally, handing Lars a beer. "I thought you were in Tokyo?"

                "I was," Lars said, sinking into an armchair with a heavy, regretful sigh, "but Kiku left last night for Honolulu and I didn't want to stay at his flat alone. He's going to be filming there for six weeks, and school starts again the day after New Years, so I don't have time to visit him. I won't see him now until after midterms."

                "He couldn't even get _Christmas_ off?" Gilbert asked sympathetically. "That sucks."

                Lars nodded solemnly in agreement.

                "Aren't you done school yet?" Antonio asked, tactfully changing the subject. "I mean, how long does it take to become a heart surgeon, _really_?"

                Lars grinned at him, full lips curling around the rim of his beer. "I figured I'm better off crashing here than flying to Amsterdam only to have to come back in a week. Is that okay?" he asked in afterthought.

                Gilbert shrugged. "Sure, as long as you don't mind crashing on the couch. Hotel Beilschmidt is fully booked at the moment."

                He pointed to his guests, all of whom were conveniently sitting on the same side of the room. Antonio waved.

                Lars smiled good-humouredly. "No, I don't mind the couch. As long as you guys don't mind that I sleep butt-naked," he joked, and received a snort, a grin, and absolutely no complaints.

* * *

**GILBERT**

Matthew spent the afternoon dead to the world in a deep, drugged sleep. Gilbert could've killed Antonio for that, and made a show of the attempt, chasing the Spaniard around the house for a while, yelling creative threats, until Francis had snapped at them to stop. "Jeeze, okay then, _Mum_ ," Gilbert sneered, holding Antonio in a headlock. To his credit, Antonio _did_ apologize for the misjudged drug prescription, and Gilbert grudgingly admitted that asleep in his bed was probably the best place for Matthew, since the boy felt so ill. In retrospect, he shouldn't have urged him out of bed in the first place, but he had been too greedy for his boyfriend's attention. Selfish of him, he knew now. It would be much better for Matthew to sleep away the sickness and awake feeling refreshed; or, at least alive. Still, Gilbert left the party periodically to check on him, and each time he noted the unlikelihood that the boy hadn't moved an inch. He slept so completely that Gilbert would have worried if he couldn't see and faintly hear him breathing. _What the hell is in those painkillers_? he wondered, then acknowledged he was better off not knowing.

                "Everything okay?" Ludwig asked subtly, intercepting Gilbert the third time he returned.

                Gilbert shook his head, half-marvelling, half-baffled. "I don't get it," he said, voice low for Ludwig's ears only. "How is it possible for someone to look like a gorgeous, sexy angel _and_ a fucking month-old kitten _at the same time_?"

                Ludwig chuckled, offering a sympathetic pat on the back and no advice.

                The fifth time Gilbert left to check on Matthew, it was seven o'clock in the evening, dark, and snowing again. He left the bright, warm kitchen, where everyone was congregating for food, and entered the corridor just in time to see his cousin and boyfriend meet by chance at the foot of the staircase. Matthew looked measurably healthier, albeit groggy, but the sleepiness still clung to him—his tousled hair and rumbled clothes and drowsy, but violet, violet eyes—which only made his smile look even sweeter.

                "Lars van den Berg," Lars introduced himself, smiling in the gentle, enamoured way people do when they see puppies. "I'm Gil and Lud's cousin."

                "Nice to—meet you," Matthew replied, yawning midsentence. His eyes apologized as he pressed a hand to his mouth. "I'm Matthew, Gil's... f-friend."

                Gilbert saw turmoil fill the boy's eyes then, even at a distance. Matthew tried to conceal it, but the panic was plain on his unguarded face, nervous and uncertain about meeting another member of Gilbert's family, unsure what he was supposed to say to prevent a scandal.

                _Family stuff_ , Gilbert had revealed to him in confidence. _Fuck._

 _Fuck_ _no_.

                _I'm not doing this again_ , he decided, striding confidently forward, _especially not with Lars._

                He reached Matthew, returning the boy's shy smile, then pulled him close, an arm securely wrapped around his waist, and said proudly to Lars:

                " _Boyfriend_ , Matt's my boyfriend."

                He felt Matthew press against him in relief; felt the boy's hand rest adoringly on his chest. It felt good.

                Lars looked genuinely taken aback for a moment, before his polite, reserved smile curled slyly. His analytical eyes swung from Gilbert to Matthew, and he simply said: "Good."

                And _good_ was right, because, just like telling Ludwig, it felt really fucking good, not only to claim Matthew as his (boorish, he knew), but to have his family, the people he loved and trusted most, accept and approve of it: of them. It made him forget there was anything at all to worry about.

                It felt fucking awesome.

* * *

Feeling better?" Gilbert asked once Lars had left, rejoining the party.

                Matthew tipped his head up and smiled, sweet and sleepy. "Yeah," he confirmed. "I feel a lot better. I should thank Antonio. That pill did its job incredibly well."

                "Too well, I think."

                "Hmm?" Matthew blinked.

                Gilbert shook his head. "Never-mind." _If he doesn't remember_ , _I'm not telling him_.

                "Can I give you your gift now, _schatzi_?" he asked instead, grinning.

                "You got me a gift?" Matthew asked, unable to hide his pleasant surprise.

                "Yeah," Gilbert said, leading Matthew back upstairs to his bedroom, "Fran and Toni said I had to. Then I saw this"—he reached beneath the bed, retrieving a box—"and I _had_ to get it for you."

                It was a fairly large box that he handed over, which he had done his best to wrap in cheerful red-and-gold paper; though, now that he saw it in the daylight, it looked more like a confection of creased folds and scotch tape.

                Matthew took it happily, and his smile got even broader at the weight. "Thank-you," he said, putting it down on the bed to open. "The last time I got a gift-wrapped parcel for Christmas was... actually, I don't remember," he said, a little embarrassed.

                "Well, go on then," Gilbert urged.

                As it happened, Gilbert's skill at securing packages was much better than his ability to beautify, and he had to fetch a jack-knife from a drawer to cut through the tape.

                "God, Gil, did you use the _whole_ roll of paper?" Matthew criticized, tearing layer after layer while laughing.

                "I wanted to be thorough," Gilbert countered, matter-of-fact.

                Finally, Matthew reached the box at the centre and opened it. And gasped in delight.

                "Ice-skates?" he beamed.

                "Bought-and-paid-for, an entirely legal transaction," Gilbert bragged.

                Matthew pulled Gilbert's head down for a kiss, pressing a puckered smile to the German's cheek in gratitude.

                "Thank-you so much, darling. I love them."

                "I had a feeling you might," Gilbert replied, giving him a one-armed hug. "I had them sharpened. What do you say to a game of one-on-one on the pond out back?"

                " _Of course_ you have a private pond on your property," Matthew shook his head, his eyes bright and sparkling as he excitedly removed the ice-skates from the box. "Are there floodlights? A grandstand? A hot-chocolate vendor, perhaps?"

                "There's a couple of lampposts and a bench," Gilbert said.

                Matthew leant up and kissed him again, this time on the lips. "Perfect."

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Anyone want to play hockey?" Gilbert called rhetorically. His guests stared flatly at him, not deigning to answer.

                "You know," said Lovino tartly, "when I said you should buy Matt clothes, I didn't realize I had to clarify that fucking _ice-skates_ do not qualify."

                Gilbert gestured rudely at Lovino, and Matthew stifled a giddy laugh as he followed him outside. Now that he no longer felt like dying, he couldn't stop smiling.

                The dogs raced ahead, leading the couple across the snowy garden and onto a path through the dark forest. "It loops around the property," Gilbert said, gesturing with a torch, "but if you cut through here—" He stepped over an ankle-high barrier of rocks, then held Matthew's hand as he followed, "—you'll find the pond."

                It wasn't big, or deep—one cold night had been enough to freeze it—but it was perfectly round and secluded; a man-made paradise in the middle of overgrown nature. Gilbert turned on the lampposts, which illuminated the soft, fluffy snowflakes that stirred in the breeze and cast the pond in a yellow glow. A couple of shovels had been left under the bench, and, together, they cleared the ice and then donned their skates. Matthew hadn't worn ice-skates in several years, but he felt no fear or hesitance. He stood without assistance and pushed off, gliding across the ice with the ease of muscle-memory and the bliss of nostalgia. He moved a lot more gracefully on the ice than he did elsewhere, and Gilbert noted this with a look of impressed disbelief as he flailed his arms for balance.

                "Fuck," he cursed, righting himself. "It's been a long time since I've skated, so you can't laugh at me, okay?"

                "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it." Matthew's grin was cheeky as he circled Gilbert, gliding backwards.

                It took a couple wobbly laps for Gilbert to find his balance on the slippery surface, but once he did he proved surprisingly adept. He grabbed both hockey sticks and tossed one to Matthew, then dropped a puck between them. "Ready to behold my awesome skills?" he said, hunching down like a prowling animal.

                "Of course," said Matthew, noticing at once that Gilbert was holding his stick wrong. It was going to fly out of his hand if Matthew so much as tapped it, but he refrained from disclosing that information. Instead, he positioned himself in front of the German and leant slightly forward, meeting the challenge reflected in his beautiful red eyes. A challenge, yes, playful and mischievous, but there was care and kindness also, and a promise that nothing bad would happen to Matthew here, or anywhere, as long as Gilbert was with him. There was  safety and strength and endurance in his lean body, and a deep-rooted loyalty that lived in his heart, which made Matthew's heart flutter in reply. Gilbert was someone who loved fiercely, though not obviously, and possessed an obsessive personality that was both an asset and a fault. He wasn't perfect—not nearly—but no one was, and Matthew wouldn't have wanted perfect anyway. He would have felt horribly inadequate next to perfect, but with Gilbert he felt good. With Gilbert, he actually liked the person he was inside. Their social and age-gaps didn't matter to him, because the simple truth was: Gilbert made him happier than he had ever been, and he hoped the German felt the same.

                Matthew looked fondly at him now, looking into those intense but tender red eyes. He watched as the falling snow collected on his shoulders and the top of his white head, catching in his short, silver lashes and melting on his flushed cheeks. He was smiling—grinning crookedly—revealing pearl-white teeth between lips reddened by the cold.

                Red and white wasn't a bad colour combination, Matthew thought, and felt his smile soften for the gorgeous man standing in front of him, wobbly on new ice-skates.

                "Gil?" he said, easily and honestly. "I love you."

                Gilbert smiled and kissed him, and said in the low, husky voice Matthew adored: "I love you, too, _schatzi_."

                Then they played.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

As the evening progressed, Francis enjoyed the easy camaraderie of the small but rather intimate party. He had found himself laughing a lot as Gilbert verbally and physically teased his relatives, abusing Lars' seamless good-humour, and play-fighting Ludwig's lacking one, until he had finally disappeared with Matthew out into the icy darkness. "You do realize that your dates parody a horror film more often than not, don't you?" Lovino called after them, and received a single-digit hand gesture in reply. Francis merely smiled, because it wasn't hard to see how happy Gilbert was with his friends and family close. Despite his bravado, he wasn't someone who liked to be alone. Francis had been worried about him lately, less obviously but no less consistently than he worried about Antonio, because Gilbert was no less self-destructive. He just did it in a slower, subtler way and refused to admit it was happening. But for the past forty-eight hours, Gilbert had been all smiles and jokes and casual, relaxed postures and physical affection, and it made Francis happy to witness. The German scion put so much pressure on himself day-to-day that it was nice to see him settle into himself for a while and leave all of his external roles behind.

                Besides, it had recently become apparent that being _Matthew's boyfriend_ was his favourite role, in much the same way that being _Lovino's boyfriend_ was Antonio's.

                Antonio, too, looked cheerful today, though Antonio always looked cheerful until he didn't. Antonio's rapid descents were much more noticeable, but they came with little to no warning, and that's what concerned Francis. He tried to keep a constant vigil for his friend's benefit, but, even after thirteen years, Antonio still took him by surprise. Sometimes it was obvious to see what had set him off, but more often it was completely unpredictable. Fortunately, it was rare for him to lose complete control of himself, like he had at the police gala. Usually, Antonio's internal distress manifested as sweating or shaking, noticeable when the Spaniard went quiet very suddenly and stared, unblinking, at the thing he deemed a threat; the thing he was afraid of; or the thing he wanted very, very badly. Francis and Antonio had tried many coping tactics over the years—Francis had clocked hours of research on mental disabilities, because Antonio: a) didn't have the patience for research, and b) became upset when he delved too deeply into what he didn't want to call a _metal disorder_ —but, eventually, they were forced to accept that only one thing consistently penetrated Antonio's mind when he was having an episode. Music. Like a fairytale beast, music was the only thing that seemed to sooth him when his mind was reeling, and Francis had found himself on more than one occasion singing lullabies to his friend in the middle of a crowded street, or in a restaurant, or a club; it had even happened at work. And now, whenever Antonio started to stutter _l_ _a Macarena_ to himself, Francis knew it was time for them to leave _very_ quickly.

                Francis couldn't imagine the torment Antonio lived with every day, a small part of his conscience constantly afraid of himself. He described it as having a second self, his _Berserker_ self, locked in a cage in his mind, but every so often some outside stimulus would fuel the beast and it would break free, taking over his mind and body. It wasn't a medical explanation, sounding more alike science-fiction to Francis, but it was the best image Antonio could think of.

                "Does it hurt?" Francis had asked once, and was heartbroken to hear Antonio's resigned reply: "Sometimes."

                But Antonio was not hurting tonight, and Francis was glad. He had worried that the scene at the gala might affect Antonio's metal stability and ruin the weekend for him. It had been a long time since he had had such a violent episode, and the last time had left him dangerously depressed—so much so, in fact, that Francis and Gilbert had taken Antonio's care in shifts for a fortnight, afraid he would try to commit suicide if left alone. It had happened before.

                _This is a good place for him_ , Francis thought, satisfied with the number of people present. It was a relief to know that Antonio couldn't be alone in this big house, even if he tried. If no one else, Lovino would seek him out, and Antonio would let him.

                Lovino sat nestled against Antonio's side on the loveseat, his legs curled under him, and somehow stayed in constant contact with Antonio, no matter how either of them moved or gestured. It was subtle. His knee was pressed to Antonio's thigh, or his hand was on the Spaniard's chest, or he rested his head on a plush, sweater-clad shoulder. It was easy and casual, but the consistency suggested a conscious volition from Lovino, which Francis was grateful for. Lovino, like no one else Antonio had ever dated, seemed to take a serious and intimate interest in the Spaniard's well-being, which appeased Francis, if only for a little while.

                Eventually, all of the laughing and story-telling and goofy, play-acting antics degraded into an inevitable and eternal party favourite: _Where's the weirdest place you've ever had sex_?

                "I'll go first," Antonio volunteered, finishing his beer. "Backstage at an antiquities auction. I was on security detail, and while the auctioneer was doing his thing on-stage, me and one of the cute Classics TAs were doing our own thing backstage." He winked. "It was fun, except for the small army of Roman statues that watched us do it. That was pretty creepy."

                Lars nodded in approval. "Okay, good, we're starting off strong."

                "What's yours?" Francis asked.

                Lars thought for a moment, then breezily said: "Legoland."

                Ludwig choked on a mouthful of beer and cough-laughed as he wiped his chin.

                Lovino straightened. "The children's theme park—?" he asked, his nose scrunched.

                Lars nodded. "Yeah. Year eleven, class fieldtrip. They told us to use the buddy-system, so—we did."

                "A _children's_ park?" Lovino repeated, horrified, making the others laugh. He made a _tch_ sound as he settled back down. "That's creepier than the statues."

                Lars shrugged. "What's yours?"

                "Um, a daybed I think—but!" he added quickly, before anyone could criticize his lack of adventure, "I got a blowjob in a gondola once."

                "The kind a gondolier paddles, or the kind that takes you up mountains?" Ludwig asked.

                "Mountains. I was eighteen, just me and the hot ski instructor; you get it," he smirked.

                "You ski?" Antonio asked, trying to cover his unease by redirecting the subject. The way he slipped an arm around Lovino was fluid, but Francis saw the tension in his fingers and the tick in his jaw.

                "Oh, God no," Lovino said, as if the mere query offended him. "My little brother is the skier. I sit in the lodge beside the fire and drink."

                "Huh," said Antonio.

                "Ludwig?" Francis prompted, and was genuinely surprised when the very formal, rather frigid, law-abiding German businessman said:

                "The boardroom conference table."

                " _Ooh_ , kinky," Antonio teased, successfully redirected. "There's something very _erotic novel_ about that one."

                Ludwig's eyes wandered as he took a swig of beer, feigning nonchalance even as his cheeks heated, especially after Lars leant toward him and whispered something, snickering. Francis couldn't hear the exchange, except for the German's harsh defense of " _fuck off_!"

                _Cute_ , Francis thought, chuckling.

                "Fran?"

                Francis faced his waiting audience, and primly said: "An elevator."

                The reaction he received was comically underwhelmed. "I think I speak for everyone when I say I'm a little disappointed," Antonio said. "I had higher hopes for you, Fran."

                "I barely know you and _I_  had higher hopes," Lovino seconded.

                "Well," Francis paused to take a drink, then set down his empty glass, smiling, and elaborated: "It was a glass elevator."

                " _Ah_ , there it is," Antonio nodded proudly. "I take back what I said before. Fran's winning.

                "Arthur?"

                Arthur had been unusually quiet as the others shared their sexual exploits, not commenting or even laughing at the funny anecdotes. The others seemed not to notice, and Francis politely refrained from pointing it out, because Arthur's attention seemed removed from the present company, staring instead into the bright flames. His expression was concentrated, revealing his awareness of the conversation, but his lips were pinched, thinking, perhaps, of which experience was safe to share.

                " _Arthur_ ," Lovino repeated, snapping his fingers at him.

                "Oh, my turn? Um..." He pretended to think for a predetermined moment, like he hadn't already chosen an exploit mild enough not to draw attention. Unfortunately, it was too mild.

                "A tabletop? Oh, come on!" Lovino criticized. "Like any of us are going to believe _that_!"

                Arthur's tone was curt when he muttered that no one except Lovino had any reason not to believe it, as the others didn't know him well, especially Ludwig and Lars, but Lovino was persistent. And a little drunk.

                "Fine," Arthur said, tugging the blanket tightly around himself like a shield. "A public toilet stall," he revised.

                Ludwig nodded, and Antonio bobbed his head in a so-so fashion, but Lovino huffed.

                " _Arthur_ ," he said, a little annoyed. "You're not playing the game right."

                "Yes, I am."

                Francis could practically hear the Englishman's teeth grinding. He was about to intervene, ready to sacrifice a public restroom experience of his own to curb the growing tension, but Lovino's tongue was too fast.

                "You're a fucking porn star!" he laughed shrewdly. "I _know_ you've got better stories than that. One time, you came home covered in—"

                Arthur stood abruptly. "Lovino, _don't_."

                The lounge fell into an uneasy silence, interrupted only by the crackling fire and snoring dogs. Lovino looked offended at first, but his scowl fell when he saw the tortured look on Arthur's face.

                "Excuse me," muttered the Englishman, and quickly fled the room.

                " _Shit_ ," Lovino said softly. Antonio squeezed his knee in a weak attempt to dilute the blame, but Lovino didn't contribute much as the conversation gradually resumed.

                Francis waited, glancing surreptitiously at a clock on the mantle, but when Arthur still hadn't returned after fifteen minutes, he discretely slipped away.

                After finding the ground-floor washroom empty, he continued on to the kitchen, and found Arthur standing in the near-dark with his back to the entry. He appeared to be rubbing his ribs, his hand pushed up under his crisp shirt and soft sweater-vest. It was a fashion that Francis had detested in his own school days, hating _full dress_ days in primary school more than any other. (Fortunately, he had attended a high-school with lax uniform rules and teachers who had bigger problems than yelling at Spaniards with earrings.) But Arthur somehow managed to pull the attire off without looking prepubescent, likely because the way he held himself was not that of an innocent, nor a delinquent. There was nothing childish about Arthur—except, perhaps, his boyish freckles. The flippant mention of his profession proved that, if nothing else.

                A spread of Francis and Lovino's baked goods lay on the countertop in front of him, but Arthur didn't look interested in anything, nor did he grab for any of the half-dozen bottles. He just stood there, coughing a little as he put his clothes back in order. Francis stayed in the doorframe, observing Arthur's stooped figure for a moment, one of his thin-boned hands braced against the dark marble as another, more aggressive coughing fit unsteadied him. At once, Francis wanted to go to him and put his arms around him. He had a flashback of a fragile, shivering Arthur standing by the fountain in the Botanical Gardens and felt compelled to grab him and enclose him into an embrace that would prevent him from fleeing, like before.

                But he didn't.

                He waited impatiently for Arthur to turn around, which he eventually did, and was startled to find Francis standing there.

                " _O-oh_ ," he said involuntarily, his whole person vulnerable for a fleeting moment.

                Abruptly, he turned back to the counter and began surveying the sweets, as if that had been his intention all along.

                Francis said: "Arthur?"

                "Hmm?"

                "Are you okay?"

                "Dandy," he replied, but it was clipped, cutting.

                "I don't think Lovino meant to upset you—"

                "I'm not upset. He didn't say anything that wasn't true."

                "But—"

                "I'm not a child, Francis. I don't need coddling."

                It was a clear dismissal, but this time Francis ignored it. Instead, he said: "Of course you do. Everyone needs coddling sometimes."

                Arthur took a deep breath. Francis saw his shoulders rise as his chest expanded, then deflated. In a tone of great restraint—a tone struggling to swallow a shaky torrent of repressed emotion—he said: "Not me."

                He fell silent, his back still turned.

                Francis waited a minute, then wordlessly left. He went to his shared bedroom, collected what he wanted, and then returned to the kitchen, only to find Arthur in the same spot as before, but bowed against the countertop now, his knuckles white with tension.

                "Arthur?"

                The Englishman said something in a soft, breathy whisper. It sounded like: " _Please_ ," a desperate request for solitude.

                "Arthur," Francis repeated, firmer.

                This time, it was with an audible little whine that Arthur turned, ready to tell Francis off with every vulgarity of the English language, but he was taken off-guard by the small, rectangular parcel Francis was holding out to him.

                "It's for you," Francis pronounced, because Arthur was staring at him blankly, equally shocked and confused.

                "But— _why_?" he blundered.

                "Open it," Francis urged, pushing the gift into Arthur's hands.

                He held it delicately, still staring in befuddled awe. If the situation were different, more lighthearted, Francis would've chuckled and poked fun at Arthur's reaction, enquiring if he had never received a gift before, but as it was he simply smiled.

                "I didn't get you anything," Arthur said needlessly, a little helplessly. He plucked sheepishly at the ribbon. "I didn't get anything for anyone. I didn't think—"

                "I know," Francis said. "I didn't expect you to."

                It was meant to be reassuring, but his words filled Arthur's lovely green eyes with guilt, so he gently added:

                "It's okay. I wanted to do this for you, Arthur. Actually," he admitted, feeling weirdly shy, "I bought it before we stopped seeing each other."

                Arthur didn't reply, but his cheeks warmed; embarrassed or ashamed, Francis didn't know, but the sight was encouraging nonetheless. He watched as Arthur removed the red ribbon and decorative paper, then opened the box. Francis knew what was inside, of course, but his heartbeat increased at the pensive look on the Englishman's face. His lips pursed and his forehead creased in what looked like distress, which made Francis nervous and regretful. Maybe he had misread Arthur? Maybe he was overstepping his boundaries, forcing a relationship that Arthur had made clear he didn't want? He opened his mouth to speak, to apologize for the insult he had inadvertently caused, when Arthur finally lifted his head.

                His eyes were big and wet now, flooded with tears that he fought to hold back.

                In his hands, he held a pair of insulated, stylish black-satin gloves.

                On a sharp inhale, he said: " _Thank-you_."

                It was a difficult reaction to interpret, but Francis read gratitude in it, so he replied: "You're welcome.

                "They're to replace your old gloves, the ones with holes in the—"

                "I know," Arthur nodded. He swallowed, blinked his eyes. "Thank-you," he repeated in a less choked voice. "I think they're lovely."

                "I'm glad," Francis smiled, relieved. "But I think I may have bought the wrong size," he added, watching the Englishman juggle the box and gloves as he slipped his fingers experimentally inside one.

                "No, no—" Arthur dismissed, then fumbled and dropped a glove. He threw Francis a half-smile as he bent to retrieve it, nervously apologetic, but before he could reach it he winced and hissed harshly through his teeth: " _Ow_!"

                Francis straightened at once. "What's wrong?" he asked, taking a step forward.

                "Nothing, I'm fine." Arthur collected the glove, pressing his lips tightly together, then emptied his arms onto the countertop. His face had gone even whiter, disconcertingly so.

                "You're not fine," Francis argued. "You haven't been fine since yesterday, since before we picked you up."

                Arthur was shaking his head in denial, his eyes glassy and darting, pleading a change of topic.

                "Arthur," Francis ordered, over-pronouncing each word: "Tell me what's wrong. What happened to you?"

                "Nothing," Arthur repeated weakly. "I just... I just..." He made the mistake of glancing at Francis, and sighed deeply in defeat. "I just fell down a few times," he said ruefully.

                Francis tensed. "Fell down, right," he said in understanding. Arthur's negative reaction to his job reference was starting to make alarming sense. "Show me," he said.

                Arthur's gaze was back on the tiled floor now, and his breathing was irregular, shaky, but he lifted a reluctant hand to his torso and peeled back his shirts.

                Francis bit his tongue on a string of profanities, because none of them would make Arthur feel better about the enflamed skin and black bruises encircling his ribcage. The pale, freckled skin showed older signs of abuse, biting and bruising, but the newest, largest injury looked like it had been caused by a restraint of some kind, something that had been secured much too tightly around Arthur's fragile body; something that had cut and chafed the skin raw, and caused welts. It was disturbing to look upon, though Francis privately acknowledged that this feeling was a reaction of seeing a loved one hurt, because, truthfully, he had seen much worse as a police officer. Arthur's injuries were nothing that wouldn't heal— _thank God_ —but they were severe enough to fill the pacifist Frenchman with a flood of conflicting emotions: disbelief, grief, fear, and anger—white-hot anger that someone would touch Arthur with anything but love.

                For a long, fuelled minute, Francis stood inactively in a spell of shock and rage, until Arthur's voice broke it.

                It wasn't words that escaped him, just a shuddering inhale as he pulled his shirts back down, but it was more encouragement than the detective needed.

                Deliberately, he strode to the door and closed it for privacy, closing he and Arthur inside. Then he faced the actor, and very calmly said:

                "Tell me what happened."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

Tell me what happened," Francis said, more with his eyes than his mouth.

                Those fathomless, jewel-blue eyes stared at Arthur intently, unable to conceal the man's feelings of anger and sadness. Blue eyes that hurt for Arthur's sake; hurt on Arthur's behalf.

                It was a lot to bear, too much for any mortal to resist, and the twenty-five-year-old impoverished actor had finally reached the end of his rope. He was so, so tired.

                "Work," he said meekly, averting his gaze back to the floor. He could feel himself breaking, crumbling like an aged wall against a barrage.

                "It..." _deep breath_ "...hasn't been good."

* * *

Two days ago, on the Friday, a day before Gilbert's Mercedes would whisk Arthur away for the holiday weekend, he had arrived at Club 69 for a filming. He shut his things into his locker, returning the dancers and wait-staffs' greetings with a noncommittal head-bob, as always, and then descended the stairwell behind the red door, ignoring the guard's snide innuendos, _as always_. He entered the spacious studio, and was already folding up his wool cardigan when a few inconsistencies caught his eye. Firstly, there were more cameras but less camera operators than usual. Instead, many remote recording devices were hanging from high vantages, which made Arthur curious about the angles the director wanted to capture. Secondly, the lights were focused exclusively upon a single set and were turned down very low; inconveniently low for filming a sex scene. But Arthur dismissed that, too. The director often had ill-advised bouts of _artistic inspiration_ involving sets and lighting and— _shudder_ —costumes. It wasn't until he reached the set, itself, that the third thing became apparent, and that was the absence of a bed, or couch, or table, or anything but a very squared, metal chair.

                Before that night, Arthur had had no idea just how much a pornography director could do with a metal chair. Now, he wished he didn't know.

                Arthur eyed his co-actors—yes, plural—with increasing wariness as the director explained the logistics of the scene. "A rape scene," he said pitilessly, "so look scared, Lexus."

                Arthur merely stared at the man, aghast. He looked to the other actors, hoping to find similar expressions of disgust on their faces, but they were alarmingly unfazed by the reveal. Finally, Arthur held up his hands, his fingers splayed into animated _stops_!, and said:

                "I am not doing that. That's just— _sick_! There can't possibly be a market for—for _that_!" Not to mention, it would, most likely, hurt like hell. Just a small sidelong glance at the other three bulging, deadpanned actors made him cringe.

                The director's brow lowered. "It's your fault we're doing it, because the audience ratings for the last two films were shit. One guy called them _repetitive_ and _uninspired_." He sneered at the insult to his (self)esteemed profession. "We need something new; something exciting to capture a new fetish."

                " _Rape_?" Arthur gaped. " _No_ , I refuse to fantasize a crime!"

                The director's sneer became a glare. "You'll do it," he ordered, "because it's in your fucking contract, _Lexus_."

                The degraded legal jargon might have intimidated a younger, impressionable, very, very broke Arthur, but it had no effect on an Arthur who had weathered a lot more than a misinformed threat.

                " _No_ ," he repeated, crossing his arms, "it's _not_. I have a copy of that _fucking_ contract, and nowhere does it say _rape_ _scenes_."

                "It says _etcetera_ ," said the director irritably.

                "You've got to be kidding me." The director shrugged. "Well, I'm not doing it, so find someone else," Arthur said, crossing his arms.

                "If you don't do it, you won't get paid. And I won't ever call on you again. You'll be done in this industry, you ungrateful little shit."

                "I don't care," said Arthur firmly. "Change the scene, or I walk and you can coerce a new Lexus into doing it."

                When neither the director or the other actors moved toward a compromise, Arthur shook his head in disgust and started to walk away.

                This time, it was the director who said: " _No_."

                Before Arthur could interpret the man's steely tone, he was grabbed from behind and wrenched backwards with such force, his feet were swept from under him.

                "You signed that contract and now you're going to fucking honour it. _You're_ my only Lexus."

                It all happened fast after that, and, if Arthur was being completely honest, it happened inevitably, too. Why hadn't he retreated the instant he saw the warning signs? Why hadn't he run? A smarter man—a man with better survival instincts—would've fled back upstairs and thrown himself upon the mercy of Mikkel, who, criminal overlord or not, had made it very clear that _his boys_ were not to be harmed. He should've run to Mikkel and begged and cried to the Dane instead of to the sadistic men he tried to reason with after it was much, much too late. He shouldn't have screamed or tried to fight them either, because it became apparent that that's exactly what they wanted of him. They _wanted_ to scared him. They _wanted_ to hurt him. And they wanted every last detail of it on film.

                Arthur was hoarse by the end of it. He was exhausted and faint and filthy and frightened beyond his wits. He hadn't even managed words at his departure, no caustic remarks or spitting insults; he hadn't even the strength or courage left to say, " _I quit_!" All that escaped him was a strangled wheeze as he collected his clothes, leaving his wool cardigan—his favourite—behind, and crawled back upstairs in a painful, dizzy daze. He left Club 69 without speaking to anyone, without looking at anyone, and tried unsuccessfully not to vomit as he staggered all the way home.

                It wasn't until he arrived back at the flat and stepped in out of the cold that he realized he had left his coat in his locker. Numbly, he dialed the club and in a calm, quiet voice requested Lovino, asking the Italian to please bring his coat home. He ended the call and the cell-phone clattered to the floor.

                In some twisted, detached way, that call was the very worst part.

* * *

Arthur spoke to the black-satin gloves Francis had bought him, remembering then that his old gloves—the ones with the holes in the fingers—were still in his locker at the club, which he would never, _could_ never, return to. He spoke in a careful, quiet voice that trembled with inflections he tried to suppress. He spoke deftly and shortly, and when he was done he simply waited.

                He wasn't sure what he had expected of Francis—the gentle, do-gooder detective—but it definitely wasn't the sudden desire to break something.

                Without a word, the Frenchman swept a wineglass off the counter, hooking his index-finger almost delicately around the stem, crossed to the sliding glass-door, opened it, and aggressively hurled the glass at the icy patio, where it smashed into innumerable sparkling shards. Then he took a few deep breaths, exhaled slowly, and retreated inside. To Arthur, he said:

                "I'm sorry, _chéri_ , I needed to break something."

                He might've been apologising for the ungentlemanly slight of coughing in public for all of the sanguine calm in his honeyed voice.

                But he wasn't calm. Not on the inside, at least.

                Arthur didn't know what to say, so he nodded mutely, his eyes going mechanically to the sliding glass-door.

                "I'll replace it," Francis assured him, misreading the stunned silence.

                Meekly, Arthur shook his head. "I—I don't care about the glass," he said.            

                "No," Francis agreed, "of course not.

                "Do Mathieu and Lovino know?" he asked after a pause.

                "No."

                "You can't go back there, to the club. If you do, it'll happen again. It'll be worse."

                "I know."

                A long, loaded silence engulfed them while Francis struggled with Arthur's confession, looking more upset, more ill by the second. Arthur watched his face change, absently thinking that he would have made a very bad priest.

                "Have you been in this much pain since yesterday?" he finally asked, blue eyes meeting green; green looking abruptly away.

                "I don't know, maybe." Arthur gave a little shrug. "I was quite numb with painkillers and liquor yesterday. You could've beaten me with a cricket bat and I don't think I'd have felt it."

                "Please don't say that."

                "Sorry."

                "Have you reported Club 69?" Francis asked.

                Arthur's gut twisted. "You know I haven't. I can't."

                The detective's reply was an exasperated whine. " _Why_?" he asked, more disparaged than he probably wanted to be.

                Arthur didn't answer. He clenched his jaw and turned away. He couldn't talk about this. He could feel a well of tears again, and didn't want Francis to see him cry.

                "Arthur, please. Talk to me."

                He closed his eyes, fighting the swell inside of himself. He could feel it in his chest, the crushing weight of messy emotion that he didn't want to show, didn't want to feel. It squeezed his stomach, clogged his throat. He bowed beneath it and pressed a hand to his chest, clutching with a tight, white fist.

                _Just go_ , he begged Francis. _Just leave me alone_. _Everyone just leave me alone_!

                But Francis didn't leave.

                His long-fingered artist's hands grabbed Arthur without warning, but Arthur didn't flinch. A part of him—a small, hopeful part—wanted the contact; yearned for it even, because it was real. It was honest. Not a lecherous grope or an angry blow, but the weighty reality of concern and comfort, gentle but firm; scared but determined. The touch of a friend who cared enough to involve himself in something terribly unpleasant and burden himself for Arthur's sake.

                Francis turned him slowly, drawing him around so they stood face-to-face; Arthur could feel the shape of his torso, the heat of his body. So close, he could feel Francis' breath on his skin and the soft caress of his long, loose hair. He had such beautiful hair.

                "Tell me," said the Frenchman, tender and hurting. "Tell me what you need, Arthur, _please_."

                A sob shuddered past Arthur's lips and tears squeezed out between his clamped eyelids, soaking his lashes, rolling down his cheeks. Trembling, he reached up for Francis' chest and found purchase in the folds of his shirt. He grasped it tightly and leant forward, buckling.

                _What do I need_? he thought, fearful as his walls collapsed around him.

                _I need you to promise me. I need you to stay with me. I need you to tell me what to do._

" _Help_ ," he whispered, opening his big, frightened green eyes, " _I need your help._ "

* * *

**FRANCIS**

_I need your help_ ," Arthur asked. And no request had ever sounded, to Francis, so sweet.

                Bitter-sweet, because it was whispered softly and urgently, fearfully, through trembling lips hushed by tears, but it contained the sweetness of indefinite surrender.

                Arthur's plea was rock-bottom, which only left one direction to go.

                Francis pulled Arthur against himself, wrapping him in his arms like he had wanted to do for so, so long. He found no resistance in the weakened Englishman as he deflated into the embrace, spent and shaking. His arms went around Francis, too, and his fingers dug in like claws, like anchors, glancing the Frenchman's spine and finding solace in the yielding skin of his clothed back. His wheat-blonde head bowed—hair smelling faintly of gingerbread soap—and his wet face pressed into Francis' chest, hiding there as he broke down completely and sobbed. " _Help me_ ," he begged between gasps, " _please_ , _please_ —" Francis held him firmly, cupping Arthur's head protectively. " _Hush_ , _hush_ ," he said soothingly, pressing his lips to the actor's temple. " _It's okay_ , chéri, _you're safe here. Everything is going to be okay._ "

                They stayed locked together in the Beilschmidt's kitchen for a long while, just wordlessly holding each other, neither wanting to break the contact first, but, finally, Arthur did.

                "Don't leave me," he said quietly. He had stopped crying, but was still shivering. In a voice bereft of anything but coy regret, he said:

                "I can't be with you, not like that. But I don't want to lose you, Francis. Please."

                " _Hush_ , Arthur. I'm not going to leave you."

                "I can't have s-s-sex with y-y-you," Arthur clarified, stuttering a little, "not like this, not with me like this."

                The fervor of his words implied a state of affairs more complex than the Englishman's present hysterics, but Francis didn't care about that right now. All he cared about was Arthur and the gratuitous things he was saying:

                "I-I-I—I can't pay y-y-you—" he worried, getting himself worked-up again, but Francis swiftly cut him off.

                "Enough," he said, pulling back and lifting Arthur's chin. His eyes shone a bottle-green. "I don't ever want to hear these things from you again, is that clear? I don't ever want you to think you owe me sex or money. We might not be lovers, boyfriends—whatever, but we _are_ friends, and friends stand by each other, no matter what.

                "I'm going to help you, Arthur, and I don't expect anything in return, okay?"

                Arthur stared at him, shell-shocked.

                " _Okay_?" Francis repeated.

                A slight, awed head-bob. "Okay."

                " _Chéri_ ," Francis said, softer and shameless, "I love you. I am never going to let anything bad happen to you, okay?"

                Another, slower nod. "I-I-I—I know. Okay."

                Pause.

                "Francis, will you..." Arthur bit his lip and looked down, swallowed, then resolutely back up. "Will you sleep with me tonight? Just sleep."

                Finally, Francis smiled.

                "Yes, _chéri_ ," he said, cupping Arthur's cheek, "of course I will."

* * *

 

They didn't go back to the party.

                Instead, they went quietly upstairs together, and had almost reached the dark landing when the front door suddenly opened, permitting a red-cheeked German and a giggling Canadian, with stark, new ice-skates flung over both of their shoulders. It was a moment before either of them noticed their surprised audience—long enough for the enamoured couple to playfully rub noses in such an innocent way, it made Francis _coo_ inside—but when they did, they merely smiled. That is, until they saw the red puffiness of Arthur's eyes and Francis' supportive hand on the small of his back. Matthew's violets immediately widened in concern, but Francis' smile gently dismissed it.

                _It's okay_ , he silently broadcast to them, _I'm going to take care of him_ , _don't worry._ _It doesn't look it, but this is a good thing_ , he promised.

                Gilbert nodded and wrapped an arm around Matthew, restraining him. "Goodnight, Fran," he said casually, covertly guiding his boyfriend away.

                " _Bonne nuit_ ," Francis replied. Arthur didn't speak, but he smiled weakly.

                Francis climbed another step, then a thought struck him and he paused. "Gil, Mathieu—?" he asked, calling them back.

                They both stared up at him, expectant.

                "Where's the weirdest place you've ever had sex?"

                Gilbert blinked; Matthew thought for a second. Then, in perfect unison, they said: "The hood of a Mercedes."

                A bubble of laughter burst from Arthur, and Francis' heart smiled.


End file.
